The Swallows of Mont Saint-Michel
SWALLOWS of Mont Saint-Michel, I remember the rush of your wings
Through the still, blue motes of the deepening vesper sky.
You sprang to the glistening air in the lighted hour that brings
A fading image of peace to the lands that lie
Thick with the yellow sheaves of vestal fire.
For the Norman farms, and the distant, shadowy choir
Of the village roofs that watch by the waste of sands,
Are bright with the golden ears that never are reaped,
Save from afar where the walls of the Mount are steeped
In the silence that watches the shapes of all things die.
But the dusk is awake with swift, soft-winnowing bands,
And scattering down in a shrill, wild shower of sound,
Over the lance of the Abbey’s mist-gray spire,
Over the tawny glint of the bay to the uttermost bound
Where the ebbing sea shrinks back from the Breton ground,
I remember your rattling cry.
Yes, I remember you well,
Swallows of Mont Saint-Michel.
Through the still, blue motes of the deepening vesper sky.
You sprang to the glistening air in the lighted hour that brings
A fading image of peace to the lands that lie
Thick with the yellow sheaves of vestal fire.
For the Norman farms, and the distant, shadowy choir
Of the village roofs that watch by the waste of sands,
Are bright with the golden ears that never are reaped,
Save from afar where the walls of the Mount are steeped
In the silence that watches the shapes of all things die.
But the dusk is awake with swift, soft-winnowing bands,
And scattering down in a shrill, wild shower of sound,
Over the lance of the Abbey’s mist-gray spire,
Over the tawny glint of the bay to the uttermost bound
Where the ebbing sea shrinks back from the Breton ground,
I remember your rattling cry.
Yes, I remember you well,
Swallows of Mont Saint-Michel.
Up from the coigns of the wall, from your tiny caverns of stone
That hide in the lichened chinks of turret and stair,
You leap with a flutter of wings to the heights where swallows have flown
Perhaps since William the Bastard halted there
With Harold come from an island over La Manche.
Could you have seen, you swallows, the Conqueror launch
The fleet that bore his chivalry over the strait,
While minstrel Taillefer whetted his sword and his lay,
‘Roland,’ sung to the blade he tossed in play
When the knights rode out at Hastings? Did you not share
The thrill of a feast that sat in the eye of fate
When captive Earl and conquering Duke were brought
To St. Michael’s board? There reveled many a paunch
Whose blood drained down to the earth when Saxon and Norman fought
Till the race of England out of their wounds was wrought.
From the still, blue dusk of the air,
What of such men can you tell,
Swallows of Mont Saint-Michel?
That hide in the lichened chinks of turret and stair,
You leap with a flutter of wings to the heights where swallows have flown
Perhaps since William the Bastard halted there
With Harold come from an island over La Manche.
Could you have seen, you swallows, the Conqueror launch
The fleet that bore his chivalry over the strait,
While minstrel Taillefer whetted his sword and his lay,
‘Roland,’ sung to the blade he tossed in play
When the knights rode out at Hastings? Did you not share
The thrill of a feast that sat in the eye of fate
When captive Earl and conquering Duke were brought
To St. Michael’s board? There reveled many a paunch
Whose blood drained down to the earth when Saxon and Norman fought
Till the race of England out of their wounds was wrought.
From the still, blue dusk of the air,
What of such men can you tell,
Swallows of Mont Saint-Michel?
Great lives darken and die, but Life is borne without rest
Into the current whose flowing is all in all.
The flesh will conceive when the spirit is sore oppressed,
And babes are begotten to hope while the ages pall.
Yet still the swallows rise on flickering wings
Into the light where the lance of Michael springs.
Over the Mount the warm, small breasts of the free
Circle and flash with sharp-tipped pinions, and cries
That tumble like bells of light from the darkening skies
And over the golden meadows rattle and fall.
The rays of glory flood from the hills and the sea,
But men are not more happy than they that are dead.
We have dwelt too long with war, and a tocsin rings
In the beauty that still is left to beacon a world of dread
To the Peace whose image walks in the warm light shed
On the yellow fields of Gaul.
They fade; but your throats yet swell,
Swallows of Mont Saint.-Michel.
Into the current whose flowing is all in all.
The flesh will conceive when the spirit is sore oppressed,
And babes are begotten to hope while the ages pall.
Yet still the swallows rise on flickering wings
Into the light where the lance of Michael springs.
Over the Mount the warm, small breasts of the free
Circle and flash with sharp-tipped pinions, and cries
That tumble like bells of light from the darkening skies
And over the golden meadows rattle and fall.
The rays of glory flood from the hills and the sea,
But men are not more happy than they that are dead.
We have dwelt too long with war, and a tocsin rings
In the beauty that still is left to beacon a world of dread
To the Peace whose image walks in the warm light shed
On the yellow fields of Gaul.
They fade; but your throats yet swell,
Swallows of Mont Saint.-Michel.