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?





