By R.S.S. Andros
A swallow in the spring
Came to our granary, and ‘neath the eaves
Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring
Wet earth and straw and leaves.
Day after day she toiled
With patient art, but ere her work was crowned,
Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled,
And dashed it to the ground.
She found the ruin wrought,
But not cast down, forth from the place she flew,
And with her mate fresh earth and grasses brought
And built her nest anew.
But scarcely had she placed
The last soft feather on its ample floor,
When wicked hand, or chance, again laid waste
And wrought the ruin o’er.
But still her heart she kept,
And toiled again, — and last night, hearing calls,
I looked, — and lo! three little swallows slept
Within the earth-made walls.
What truth is here, O man!
Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn?
Have clouds o’ercast thy purpose, trust, or plan?
Have faith, and struggle on!