The woodland paths are dry,
Under October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty swans.
The Autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count
I saw, before I had well finished,
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 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,
Delight men’s eyes, when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
William Butler Yeats
