XCIX
Reading edition
Over the wheat-field, Over the hill-crest, Swoops and is gone The beat of a wild wing, Brushing the pine-tops, 5 Bending the poppies, Hurrying Northward With golden summer.
What premonition, O purple swallow, 10 Told thee the happy Hour of migration? Hark! On the threshold (Hush, flurried heart in me!), Was there a footfall? 15 Did no one enter?
Soon will a shepherd In rugged Dacia, Folding his gentle Ewes in the twilight, 20 Lifting a level Gaze from the sheepfold, Say to his fellows, “Lo, it is springtime.”
This very hour 25 In Mitylene, Will not a young girl Say to her lover, Lifting her moon-white Arms to enlace him, 30 Ere the glad sigh comes, “Lo, it is lovetime!”