quarta-feira, 8 de dezembro de 2010

O, Swallow, Swallow

O, Swallow, Swallow, de John Strudwick, 1894

Oh, swallow, swallow flying, flying south,
Fly to her and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.

Oh tell her, swallow, thou that knowest each
Bright and fierce and fickle is the south,
And dark and true and tender is the north.

Oh were I thou that she might take me in,
And lay me on her bosom and her heart
Would rock the cradle till I die.

Oh swallow flying from the golden woods,
Fly to her, and pipe and woo here, and make her mine.
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
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