HE trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the
Are nine-and-fifty Swans.
The nineteenth autumn has come upon
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly
And scatter wheeling in great broken
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
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
Delight men's eyes when I awake some
To find they have flown away?
