The Lovely Swan

I heard men mutter of you, “She will die.

That gentle Swan is sped, her white plumes cast...

Lovely she was; but she has danced her last;

One planet more slips westward from the sky.”

Then, when that ballet from the time gone by

Played, but not bringing you, as in the past,

I thought, “Her spirit wanders in the vast...

Under the primrose roots her beauties lie.”

Another June, with other roses, came.

There, in the theatre, we read your name.

“Can it be she?” we hoped, but doubt denied.

Then, lo, to faery horn and violin,

You, given back to life, came floating in.

O, in that happy instant all Death died.

John Masefield