A Dark World

Under the pent-house branches the eight swans have come,
Into the black-green water round the roots of the yew;
Like a beam descending the lake, the stairway to their room.

The young swans in their tender smoke-grey feathers, blown
By wind or light to a faint copper smouldering,
Come docile with their parents still, three-quarters grown.

The old swans, built of light like marble, tower and scatter
Light in the dusk; but the young are mate to the yew�s shade.
With their dim-green webbed feet like hands they part the water

And wind among its loops and eyes of mercury,
Less visible that these they have wakened; and beside
The trellised roots they twine their necks as fine and grey.

In groups and in their fugue following on another
They turn to constant music their intercourse; and passing
With neck stretched on, with greyhound brow, brother by
brother,

Or slowlier drawing level, where their mute and furled
Wings touch they loose a feather to float on the night-face
Of water, with white stars to drift as a dark world.

Edith Joy Scovell