'Oh Swallow, Swallow'
Oh, Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South,
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.
O tell here, Swallow, thou that knowest each,
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,
And dark and true and tender is the North.
O were I thou that she might take me in,
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
When Apples were Golden and Songs were Sweet, But Summer had Passed away
The Music of a Bygone Age
The Ramparts of God's House
In the Golden Days
Нить судьбы (?)
Circe and Scylla