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60
THE SWAN
The awakening swan grows tired at last
Of weltering pastures where he feeds;
With wings and feet behind him cast,
He cleaves the labyrinth of reeds.
Of weltering pastures where he feeds;
With wings and feet behind him cast,
He cleaves the labyrinth of reeds.
He arches out his sparkling plumes,
He wades and plunges, till he finds
Beneath his breast the azure glooms
Where the great river brims and winds.
He wades and plunges, till he finds
Beneath his breast the azure glooms
Where the great river brims and winds.
Then, with white sails set to the breeze,
The current cold about his feet,
He fares to those Hesperides
Where morning and his comrades meet.
The current cold about his feet,
He fares to those Hesperides
Where morning and his comrades meet.
Nor—since within his kindling veins
A livelier ichor stirs at last—
Regrets the gross and juicy stains,
The saps and savours of the past;
A livelier ichor stirs at last—
Regrets the gross and juicy stains,
The saps and savours of the past;
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But through the august and solemn void
Of misty waters holds his way,
By some ecstatic thirst decoyed
Towards raptures of the radiant day.
Of misty waters holds his way,
By some ecstatic thirst decoyed
Towards raptures of the radiant day.
So sails the soul, and cannot rest,
Inglorious, in the marsh of peace,
But leaves the good, to seek the best,
Though all its calms and comforts cease,—
Inglorious, in the marsh of peace,
But leaves the good, to seek the best,
Though all its calms and comforts cease,—
Though what it seemed to hold be lost,
Though that grow far which once was nigh,—
By torturing hope in anguish tossed,
The awakened soul must sail or die.
Though that grow far which once was nigh,—
By torturing hope in anguish tossed,
The awakened soul must sail or die.
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