Under the lily shadow
and the gold
and the blue and the mauve
that the whin and the lilac
pour down upon the water,
the fishes quiver.
Over the green cold leaves
and the rippled silver
and the tarnished copper
of its neck and beak,
toward the deep black water
beneath the arches,
the swan floats slowly.
Into the dark of the arch the swan floats
and the black depth of my sorrow
bears a white rose of flame.