As Swallows Call
The daffodils are dying now,
soft yellow silks wear hues of brown;
in weariness they rest their brow,
against the breeze, in jaded gown.
‘neath cotton clouds and powder blue
the daffodils are dying now;
as fleeting as the morning dew,
their beauty sways by shade of bough,
with trumpets dipped in muted vow
to yield their last remaining glow.
The daffodils are dying now
as blossom reigns o’er winter snow.
And at the final curtain fall,
no encore, just a graceful bow,
as first arriving swallows call
“The daffodils are dying now”
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