An old thorn tree in a stony place Where the mountain stream has run dry, Torn in the black wind under the race Of the icicle-sharp kaleidoscopic white sky, Bursts into sudden flower. Under the central dome of winter and night A wild swan spreads his fanatic wing. Ancestralled energy of blood and power Beats in his sinewy breast. And now the ravening Soul, fulfilled, his first-last hour Upon him, chooses to exult. Over the edge of shivering Europe, Over the chalk front of Kent, over Eire, Dwarfing the crawling waves' amoral savagery, Daring the hiding clouds' rhetorical tumult, The white swan plummets the mountain top. The stream has suddenly pushed the papery leaves! It digs a rustling channel of clear water On the scarred flank of Ben Bulben. The twisted tree is incandescent with flowers. The swan leaps singing into the cold air: This is a glory not for an hour. Over the Galway shore The white bird is flying Forever, and crying To the tumultuous throng Of the sky his cold and passionate song. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FEAST OF LIGHTS by EMMA LAZARUS THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN by ROBERT BROWNING BLUEBEARD'S CLOSET by ROSE TERRY COOKE HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 6 by EZRA POUND THE BURNING BABE by ROBERT SOUTHWELL THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS |