With the Sunshine and the Swallows
by Joseph Noel Paton (1821-1901)

With the sunshine and the swallows and the flowers,
   She is coming, my belovèd, o’er the sea!
And I sit alone and count the weary hours,
   Till she cometh in her beauty back to me;
         And my heart will not be quiet,
         But, in a “purple riot,”
         Keeps ever madly beating
         At the thought of that sweet meeting,
When she cometh with the summer o’er the sea;
         All the sweetness of the south
         On the roses of her mouth,
         All the fervour of its skies
         In her gentle northern eyes,
As she cometh, my belovèd, home to me!

No more, o’ nights, the shivering north complains,
   But blithe birds twitter in the crimson dawn;
No more the fairy frost-flowers fret the panes,
   But snowdrops gleam by garden-path and lawn;
         And at times a white cloud wingeth
         From the southland up, and bringeth
         A warm wind, odour-laden,
         From the bowers of that fair Aden
Where she lingers by the blue Tyrrhenian Sea;
         And I turn my lips to meet
         Its kisses faint and sweet;
         For I know from hers they’ve brought
         The message: rapture-fraught:
“I am coming, love, with summer, home to thee.”

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