i left the latch of cottage stone,

and took the path i walk alone,

where waking garden whispers sown,

bid me to come and call my own.

୨୧

and there, within the willow's lair,

i stopped and breathed the dampened air;

a vision, potent, pale, and fair,

was held in perfect stillness there.

୨୧

it seemed a spectre, yet composed,

where light and liquid art had closed;

a dream that waking interposed,

on water where the green reposed.

୨୧

then, with a grace the breeze implored,

it arched the scepter of its lord:

the living swan my heart adored,

a king upon his grassy sword.

୨୧

from what far realm of mist and morn,

was such a creature shaped and born?

to what deep lake shall it return,

when from my earthly gaze withdrawn?

୨୧