Yesterday was gorgeous, but the flooded lake-edge bore witness to the recent round of deluges. (This morning, it was undoubtedly replenished.) The lake-next-to-a-lake created double swan clouds.
Three swans were hanging around; one had its leathery black foot tucked up at a strange angle as if useless, but its paddling was unaffected.
Today is the birthday of William Butler Yeats, shown here looking awfully Daniel-Day-Lewisy. What better excuse for the haunting last stanzas of his famous poem, "The Wild Swans of Coole"?
...I have looked upon those 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?
William Butler Yeats, The Wild Swans at Coole (1919)
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