The Wild Swans at Coole

The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the glassy water among the stones Are nine-and-fifty swans.

The curlew calls, and the great grey heron Is flying to his nest, The night’s whirl awakens the waning stars The full moon in the west Is a silvered sea, and the autumn light, Is led by the swans’ flight.

And the most of us unite our swift, sad thought, To lie on marble,” said, “The swans move on into the night.”

• Mary Gilmore