From Jean Pierre Claris Florian br br I love to see the swallows come br At my window twittering, br Bringing from their southern home br News of the approaching spring. br 'Last year's nest,' they softly say, br 'Last year's love again shall see; br Only faithful lovers may br Tell you of the coming glee.' br br When the first fell touch of frost br Strips the wood of faded leaves, br Calling all their wingèd host, br The swallows meet above the eaves br 'Come away, away,' they cry, br 'Winter's snow is hastening; br True hearts winter comes not nigh, br They are ever in the spring.' br br If by some unhappy fate, br Victim of a cruel mind, br One is parted from her mate br And within a cage confined, br Swiftly will the swallow die, br Pining for her lover's bower, br And her lover watching nigh br Dies beside her in an hour.