Classic Poem

Yes, thou, my pretty swallow,
Dost make thy journey yearly;
Thy nest in summer weaving,
Unseen again in winter,
Or at the Nile, or Memphis.
But Eros in my bosom
His nest is ever weaving.
One Love is fledged already,
And one is in the egg still,
And one is only half-hatched.
And there's a constant bustle,
With the young ones always chirping.
And the bigger Loves forever
Are nourishing the smaller.
And in their turn the nurslings,
Produce a brood of young ones.
What course then can be taken?
I have not strength sufficient
So many Loves to banish.