The Black Swans 



Fill the vibrant vernal air 

 And from a woodland deep 

 A mourning-dove flies forth. 



And if that boy shall live a hundred years, 

 And if naught else of early youth he shall 



regret 

 Whene'er that plaintive spring-time cooing 



call he hears 

 That day in May of long ago shall haunt him 



yet. 



A dove lies fluttering, dying at his feet. 

 Strange, wondrous, iridescent colors come and 



go 

 Upon the plumage of a dainty, drooping 



breast; 

 Pink changing into rose and purples into 



violets! 

 Then all is still. 



And when it answered not his touch, 

 Too late he knew he cared so much; so much! 



And thus the thoughtless wanton word 



Speeding its cruel shaft 



Straight to its mark beyond recall 



May crush a love that only winged its way to 



bless 

 And throw the pall of darkness over all. 



[ 120] 



