Gone from the gentle Summer skies,
Gone from sight of gladdened eyes,
No more the joyful, hurtling cries.
Mid-August evening quietly passing,
Without the passionate frenzied dashing,
Of ebon blades of sharp wings flashing.
Gables, chimneys, rooftops all,
Becalmed, bereft, no more in thrall,
Of fierce and furious screeching call.
Return they will, we hope, we pray,
To bring anew the late Spring day,
But now the loss, the price we pay.