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!