Under my window-ledge the waters race，
Otters1 below and moor-hens on the TOP，

Run for a mile undimmed in Heavens face

Then darkening through dark Rafterys cellar drop，

Run underground， rise in a rocky place

In Coole demesne2， and there to finish up

Spread to a lake and drop into a hole.

Whats water but the generated soul？

Upon the border of that lakes a wood

Now all dry sticks under a wintry sun，

And in a copse of beeches3 there I stood，

For Natures pulled her tragic4 buskin on

And all the rants 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 emblem5 there！ That stormy white

But seems a concentration of the sky；

And， like the soul， it sails into the sight

And in the mornings gone， no man knows why；

And is so lovely that it sets to right

What knowledge or its lack had set awry6，

So arrogantly7 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 toils8 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 reigned9 that lacked a name and fame

Or out of folly10 into folly came.

A spot whereon the founders11 lived and died

Seemed once more dear than life； ancestral trees，

Or gardens rich in memory glorified12

Marriages， alliances and families，

And every brides ambition satisfied.

Where fashion or mere13 fantasy decrees

Man shifts aboutall that great glory spent

Like some poor Arab tribesman and his tent.

We were the last romanticschose for theme

Traditional sanctity and loveliness；

Whatevers 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.