I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty swans.
The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished, surely I saw them
Putting out on broad wings;
I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, and now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight, the first time upon this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Tinkled like a distant harp, and was still.
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, and at peace.
An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick,
Unless soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing for every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence to make its meaning clear;
And the deep hearts of the old are brave, though more and more they grieve.
I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, and now my heart is sore.