| The trees are in their autumn beauty, |
| The woodland paths are dry, |
| Under the October twilight the water |
| Mirror a still sky; |
| Upon the brimming water among the stones |
| Are nine-and-fifty swans. |
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|
|
|
| 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. |
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|
|
|
| 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? |