W. B. Yeats               The Wild Swans At Coole   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?   1916