Half-hidden I lay in a hollow,
’Mid the glare of the spears of the hay;
Above me twittered the swallow,
As it glided and skimmed on its way;
Afar with a waft of its wing
It threaded the air in its flight,
And the aerial sea, like a king,
It breasted, a speck in the light.
High over me towered a ruin,
In the tragical glory of years,
With dungeons that grass never grew in,
But enriched with the splendour of tears;
On the top of the wall was a flower
That was blooming alone ’mid the leaves,
Still wet with the breath of a shower;
And the swallows they built in the eaves.
Once again when the Autumn in glory
Spread its gold on the brow of the year;
To that desolate tower so hoary
I came with foreboding and fear;
And the scythe of the reaper had shone,
And the gleaner had gathered the sheaves;
And the flower and its beauty were gone;
And the swallow deserted the eaves.