Classic Poem

Not that for death thou'lt sing, fair silent Swan,
Should the tale be! Nay, as I watch thee here
Gliding between two summer heavens upon
The unrippled edges of these waters clear—

So perfect-poiséd, passionless, and calm—
Methinks that, when, at length in some warm night
Of starry mid-July, the drifting balm
Of these lake-dimming lindens, and delight

Melodious of a lover's mandolin,
Meet on this faery coast—then voiceless days
In matchless song thou 'lt break, and all within
Thy placid breast will melt in rapturous praise!—

What though the unknown, long-slumbering song in thee
Roused instantly to power, a burning stream,
Shatter thy crystal life with ecstasy,
And end thy dreaming with its prelude dream!

O Swan, if thou toward this untranquil end,
Hourly from mute, indefinite hope dost grow,
I tell thee I, who am thy songless friend,
Mourn not thy doom, but smile to think it so!