Chaste, vivacious day of beauty: will it
Stripe with one lash of a drunken wing
Forgotten lakes beneath whose ice we find
Glaciers of glass, flight that could not flee?
A swan of yesteryear remembers. He
Rescues himself, hopeless, magnificent,
But fails to sing a place where he might live
When dull pain blazes winter's impotence.
His neck will shake this whitest agony
That space inflicts. He will deny it quite.
Yet to his feathers earthly terrors cling.
Phantom that flares and flashes purity,
He freezes in a cold dream of disdain:
Vain exile's only vestment for the swan.