William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

　　The trees are in their autumn beauty,

　　The woodland paths are dry,

　　Under the October twilight the water

　　Mirror 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?