Wayne Swan, not Wayne Owl. Obvs. The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty swans.
The nineteenth autumn has come apon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.
I have looked upon these brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.
Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold,
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake’s edge or pool
Delight men’s eyes, when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
Note; this poem is about swans, not owls.
People don’t write poems about owls* as owls are filthy vermin.
*The Owl and the Pussycat doesn’t count.
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty swans.
The nineteenth autumn has come apon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.
I have looked upon these brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.
Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold,
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake’s edge or pool
Delight men’s eyes, when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
Note; this poem is about swans, not owls.
People don’t write poems about owls* as owls are filthy vermin.
*The Owl and the Pussycat doesn’t count.
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7 comments:
Oh yeah, the picture really goes with the poem, nice touch
'And scatter wheeling in great broken rings.' My god, that's good
Owl Lake would be such a cool ballet
We did this in Year 12 English Lit. Then I did it again in 1st year at Uni in Lit.
Hated it then.
Hate it now.
Pers,
To use a line from Blackadder the Third shown recently;
"Poo to you sir - with knobs on".
there's just no pleasing some people
That's just what Jesus said, Squib!
Ramon, the picture that accompanies your poem reminds me of two questions that have been on my mind for a little while now. I think you might be just the person to answer them.*
*But please keep in mind that I only started following politics during the last federal election. You might have to dumb it down a bit.
1: I find Lindsay Tanner much more impressive than Wayne Swan. Why isn't he treasurer?
2: The Liberals have had three leaders since the last election, but only one deputy. What does Julie Bishop have that makes her so indispensable?
The Owl and the Pussycat DOES count.
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