2106 - The Wild Swans at Coole

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?

(W. B. Yeats) 


© José Pacheco Pereira
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