Томас Гарди (Харди) (Thomas Hardy)

The Faithful Swallow

When summer shone
Its sweetest on
An August day,
‘Here evermore,’
I said, ‘I’ll stay;
Not go away
To another shore
As fickle they!’

December came:
’Twas not the same!
I did not know
Fidelity
Would serve me so.
Frost, hunger, snow;
And now, ah me,
Too late to go!

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