The Swan

The trumpets were curled away, the drum beat no more,

Only the Swan, the Swan, danced in my brain:

All night she spun; dropped, lifted again,

Arched and curved her arms; sunk on the frore

Snow-brittle feathers skirting her; reclined on hands

Buckling her waist, where the moon glanced.

How small her waist was, and the feet that danced!

Sometimes she bent back, and a breeze fanned

Her hair that touched the ground, and, shown

Between her Swan’s legs, feathers and white down.