Otters below and moor-hens on the top，
Run for a mile undimmed in Heaven‘s face
Then darkening through ‘dark’ Raftery‘s ’cellar‘ drop，
Run underground， rise in a rocky place
In Coole demesne， and there to finish up
Spread to a lake and drop into a hole.
What‘s water but the generated soul？
Upon the border of that lake‘s a wood
Now all dry sticks under a wintry sun，
And in a copse of beeches there I stood，
For Nature‘s pulled her tragic buskin on
And all the rant‘s a mirror of my mood：
At sudden thunder of the mounting swan
I turned about and looked where branches break
The glittering reaches of the flooded lake.
Another emblem there！ That stormy white
But seems a concentration of the sky；
And， like the soul， it sails into the sight
And in the morning‘s gone， no man knows why；
And is so lovely that it sets to right
What knowledge or its lack had set awry，
So arrogantly pure， a child might think
It can be murdered with a spot of ink.
Sound of a stick upon the floor， a sound
From somebody that toils from chair to chair；
Beloved books that famous hands have bound，
Old marble heads， old pictures everywhere；
Great rooms where travelled men and children found
Content or joy； a last inheritor
Where none has reigned that lacked a name and fame
Or out of folly into folly came.
A spot whereon the founders lived and died
Seemed once more dear than life； ancestral trees，
Or gardens rich in memory glorified
Marriages， alliances and families，
And every bride‘s ambition satisfied.
Where fashion or mere fantasy decrees
Man shifts about—all that great glory spent—
Like some poor Arab tribesman and his tent.
We were the last romantics—chose for theme
Traditional sanctity and loveliness；
Whatever‘s written in what poets name
The book of the people； whatever most can bless
The mind of man or elevate a rhyme；
But all is changed， that high horse riderless，
Though mounted in that saddle Homer rode
Where the swan drifts upon a darkening flood.