Yesterday evening I had a bit of a stroll, and I noticed that there were quite a few more swallows about. They darted and swooped, but mostly, and this was a bit odd, they also roosted a bit in tree limbs. I concluded that this was a flock that was resting as it migrated southward, … amid the yellowing leaves.
From the Laudator:
Charles Turner, The First Week in October, from his Small Tableaux (London: Macmillan and Co., 1868), p. 59:
Once on an autumn day as I reposed
Beneath a noon-beam, pallid yet not dull,
The branch above my head dipt itself full
Of that white sunshine momently, and closed;
While, ever and anon, the ashen keys
Dropt down beside the tarnished hollyhocks,
The scarlet crane’s-bill, and the faded stocks,—
Flung from the shuffling leafage by the breeze.
How wistfully I marked the year’s decay,
Forecasting all the dreary wind and rain;
‘Twas the last week the swallow would remain—
How jealously I watched his circling play!
A few brief hours, and he would dart away,
No more to turn upon himself again.