The Wild Swans At Coole

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?