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Under a wall of bronze, Where beeches dip and trail Their branches in the water; With red-tipped head and wings— A beaked ship under sail— There glides a single swan.
Under the autumn trees He goes. The branches quiver, Dance in the wraith-like water, Which ripples beneath the sedge With the slackening furrow that glides In his wake when he is gone: The beeches bow dark heads.
Into the windless dusk, Where in mist great towers stand Guarding a lonely strand, That is bodiless and dim, He speeds with easy stride; And I would go beside, Till the low brown hills divide At last, for me and him.
