I am as restless a traveller in my own land as a wintering whooper swan.

There are no new themes for a writer, only new ways of setting down old themes, new eyes to wander among old rocks.

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

The swan murmurs sweet strains with a flattering tongue, itself the singer of its own dirge.

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear.

Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.