William Butler Yeats （1865-1939）

The trees are in their autumn beauty，

The woodland paths are dry，

Under the October twilight¹ 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 scatter² wheeling in great broken rings

Upon their clamorous³ 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 lighter⁴ 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？