This is a pretty little poem about the swallows flying south for the winter, but the last line jars somewhat for me as when I’m reading it in my head it doesn’t seem like a natural end of the line. But then again, I’m no Enid Blyton, so what do I know.
On the roof of the barn, all close together,
The swallows sit and study the weather
Shall they fly to the south, or stay
Here in England another day?
The moon is rising, pale and fair,
The night is cold, there’s frost in the air,
The wind blows strong from the wintry north,
‘Come!’ say the swallows, ‘we must set forth!’
With a musical twittering, up they fly,
Spreading their wings in the darkening sky.
Farewell swallows, come back again,
When the hawthorn’s budding along the lane!