Homing Swallows

 Swift swallows sailing from the Spanish main, 
O rain-birds racing merrily away 
From hill-tops parched with heat and sultry plain 
Of wilting plants and fainting flowers, say-- 

When at the noon-hour from the chapel school 
The children dash and scamper down the dale, 
Scornful of teacher's rod and binding rule 
Forever broken and without avail, 

Do they still stop beneath the giant tree 
To gather locusts in their childish greed, 
And chuckle when they break the pods to see 
The golden powder clustered round the seed?

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