The Swallow Swooping through thick thickets, meeting daisies and sweet life, with no hooting owls nor harried mourners, yet a secret buried rests as the swallow thinks flight travels clearly, smoothly onward for ever, like stories of woodland about birds and gardens sewn to scatter its genes along the fringe of meadows!

It drills (knitting even hopes!) from dirt, revives cool shadows of enchanted dusk, dying into breath of dust and breath, surrounded by once-silver air. This expansive flier knows the wildwoods and routes flower perpetual fights far, rising to win calm light through the night.

Each feather on wind might touch the soft caress; I who sow seeds again, learn little of absolute.”

• Marianne Moore