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The Wild Swans at Coole
par
William Butler Yeats
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The trees are in their autumn beauty The woodland paths are dry Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine-and-fifty swans The nineteenth autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count; I saw, before I had well finished All suddenly mount And scatter wheeling in great broken rings Upon their clamorous wings I have looked upon those brilliant creatures And now my heart is sore All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight The first time on this shore The bell-beat of their wings above my head Trod with a lighter tread Unwearied still, lover by lover They paddle in the cold Companionable streams or climb the air; Their hearts have not grown old; Passion or conquest, wander where they will Attend upon them still But now they drift on the still water Mysterious, beautiful; Among what rushes will they build By what lake’s edge or pool Delight men’s eyes when I awake some day To find they have flown away?
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