The woodland paths are dry, Under October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine-and-fifty swans. The Autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count I saw, before I had well finished, And scatter wheeling in great broken rings Upon their clamorous wings. I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, And now my heart is sore. All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight, The bell-beat of their wings above my head, Trod with a lighter 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, Delight men’s eyes, when I awake some day To find they have flown away? William Butler Yeats