The old barns on this summer island
Are being used for theaters,
For studios, garages, or just
To house the overflow of guests.
The barn swallows have built their nests
Over the doorway of the town hall.
I saw them there tonight, asleep.
I wonder if the swallows miss
The smell of horse and harness leather,
Of sweet white clover in the haymow,
Of full warm udders ready to be milked,
Of cats, and corn, and brown wheat bran.
I wonder if they miss the sound
Of breathing, chewing, snorting, nuzzling,
The rustle of a mouse, a cricket
Shrilling; and Grandpa calling back,
``Leave the barn door open just
A little crack - for the swallows.''