O swallow, swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee. O tell her, swallow, that thou knowest each, That bright, and fierce, and fickle is the South, And dark, and true, and tender is the North. O tell her, brief is life, but love is long. And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the noon of beauty in the South. O swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her that I follow thee.