Coal-black is better than another hue In that it scorns to bear another hue; For all the water in the ocean Can never turn the swan's black legs to white, Although she lave them ...

Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can Her heart inform her tongue the swan's down-feather That stands upon the swell at full of tide, And neither way inclines.

I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death, And from the organ-pipe of fraity sings His soul and body to their lasting rest.

I will play the swan, And die in music.

Let music sound while he doth make his choice; Then if he lose he makes a swanlike end, Fading in music.

The swan on still St. Mary's lake Float double, swan and shadow!

The swan, with arched neck Between her white wings mantling proudly, rows Her state with oary feet.

Thus does the white swan, as he lies on the wet grass, when the Fates summon him, sing at the fords of Maeander.

We bodged again, as I have been a swan With bootless labor swim against the tide And spend her strength with overmatching waves.