Invective Against Swans

The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks
 And far beyond the discords of the wind.

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 A bronze rain from the sun descending marks
 The death of summer, which that time endures
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 Like one who scrawls a listless testament
 Of golden quirks and Paphian caricatures,
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 Bequeathing your white feathers to the moon
 And giving your bland motions to the air.
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 Behold, already on the long parades
 The crows anoint the statues with their dirt.
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 And the soul, O ganders, being lonely, flies
 Beyond your chilly chariots, to the skies.

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--Wallace Stevens, 1923

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