The Swallow

Foolish prater, what dost thou
  So early at my window do,
  With thy tuneless serenade?
  Well 't had been had Tereus made
  Thee as dumb as Philomel;
  There his knife had done but well.
  In thy undiscovered nest
  Thou dost all the winter rest,
  And dreamest o'er thy summer joys,
  Free from the stormy season's noise:
  Free from th' ill thou'st done to me;
  Who disturbs or seeks out thee?
  Hadst thou all the charming notes
  Of the wood's poetic throats,
  All thou art could never pay
  What thou hast ta'en from me away.
  Cruel bird! thou'st ta'en away
  A dream out of my arms to-day;
  A dream that ne'er must equaled be
  By all that waking eyes may see.
  Thou, this damage to repair,
  Nothing half so sweet or fair,
  Nothing half so good, canst bring,
  Though men say thou bring'st the Spring.