text: 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?