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.

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.