Leda

Where the slow river
   meets the tide,
   a red swan lifts red wings
   and darker beak,
   and underneath the purple down
   of his soft breast
   uncurls his coral feet.

   Through the deep purple
   of the dying heat
 of sun and mist,
 the level ray of sun-beam
 has caressed
 the lily with dark breast,
 and flecked with richer gold
 its golden crest.

 Where the slow lifting
 of the tide,
 floats into the river
 and slowly drifts
 among the reeds,
 and lifts the yellow flags,
 he floats
 where tide and river meet.

 Ah kingly kiss —
 no more regret
 nor old deep memories
 to mar the bliss;
 where the low sedge is thick,
 the gold day-lily
 outspreads and rests
 beneath soft fluttering
 of red swan wings
 and the warm quivering
 of the red swan's breast.