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?