Where the slow river
meets the tide,
a red swan lifts red wings
and darker beak,
and underneath the purple down
of his soft breast
uncurls his coral feet.
Through the deep purple
of the dying heat
of sun and mist,
the level ray of sun-beam
has caressed
the lily with dark breast,
and flecked with richer gold
its golden crest.
Where the slow lifting
I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.
And what did I see I had not seen before?
Only a question less or a question more;
Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.
Tiresome heart, forever living and dying,
House without air, I leave you and lock your door.
Wild swans, come over the town, come over
The town again, trailing your legs and crying!
The lake, a silver mirror in a frame of green;
The swans on it but white fancies in a whiter dream.
The enchanted bowl of blue below the rim,
But a goblet with liquid diamonds, filled to the brim.
White within white, a song in a sea,
Painted within a mirror, green hill and tree.
Moveless music, without murmur or moan;
Swan-made curves, its tune, its measure, and tone.
In the dead of the night
You turned in your troubled sleep
As you heard the wild swans pass;
And then you slept again.
You slept--
While a new world swam beneath
That army of eager wings,
While plainland and slough and lake
Lay wide to those outstretched throats,
While the far lone Lights allured
That phalanx of passionate breasts.
And I who had loved you more
Than a homing bird loves flight,--
I watched with an ache for freedom,
I rose with a need for life,
Knowing that love had passed