THE trees are in their autumn beauty, <br />The woodland paths are dry, <br />Under the October twilight the water <br />Mirrors a still sky; <br />Upon the brimming water among the stones <br />Are nine-and-fifty Swans. <br />The nineteenth autumn has come upon me <br />Since I first made my count; <br />I saw, before I had well finished, <br />All suddenly mount <br />And scatter wheeling in great broken rings <br />Upon their clamorous wings. <br />I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, <br />And now my heart is sore. <br />All's changed since I, hearing at twilight, <br />The first time on this shore, <br />The bell-beat of their wings above my head, <br />Trod with a lighter tread. <br />Unwearied still, lover by lover, <br />They paddle in the cold <br />Companionable streams or climb the air; <br />Their hearts have not grown old; <br />Passion or conquest, wander where they will, <br />Attend upon them still. <br />But now they drift on the still water, <br />Mysterious, beautiful; <br />Among what rushes will they build, <br />By what lake's edge or pool <br />Delight men's eyes when I awake some day <br />To find they have flown away?<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wild-swans-at-coole/
