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I.
The
plain was grassy, wild and bare,
Wide, wild, and open
to the air,
Which had built up everywhere
An
under-roof of doleful gray.
With an inner voice the
river ran,
Adown it floated a dying swan,
And
loudly did lament.
It was the middle of the day.
Ever the weary wind went on,
And took the reed-tops
as it went.
II.
Some blue peaks in the
distance rose,
And white against the cold-white sky,
Shone out their crowning snows.
One willow over the
river wept,
And shook the wave as the wind did sigh;
Above in the wind was the swallow,
Chasing itself at
its own wild will,
And far thro’ the marish green and
still
The tangled water-courses slept,
Shot over
with purple, and green, and yellow.
III.
The
wild swan’s death-hymn took the soul
Of that waste
place with joy
Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear
The warble was low, and full and clear;
And floating
about the under-sky,
Prevailing in weakness, the
coronach stole
Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear;
But anon her awful jubilant voice,
With a music
strange and manifold,
Flow’d forth on a carol free
and bold;
As when a mighty people rejoice
With
shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold,
And the
tumult of their acclaim is roll’d
Thro’ the open
gates of the city afar,
To the shepherd who watcheth
the evening star.
And the creeping mosses and
clambering weeds,
And the willow-branches hoar and
dank,
And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds,
And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank,
And the
silvery marish-flowers that throng
The desolate
creeks and pools among,
Were flooded over with
eddying song.
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