Where the slow river meets the
tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker
beak, and underneath the purple down of his
soft breast uncurls his coral feet.
Through the deep purple of the
dying heat of sun and mist, the level ray
of sun-beam has caressed the lily with dark
breast, and flecked with richer gold its
golden crest.
Where the slow lifting of the tide,
floats into the river and slowly drifts among
the reeds, and lifts the yellow flags, he
floats where tide and river meet.
Ah kingly kiss no more
regret nor old deep memories to mar the bliss;
where the low sedge is thick, the gold day-lily
outspreads and rests beneath soft fluttering
of red swan wings and the warm quivering
of the red swan’s breast.