IN THE MORNING

  

How graceful is the white neck of this swan,

Reflected in the river’s swelling flood:

His head bent sideways, peering down for food;

The pinions of his flight secure and drawn,

Prepared for sudden plunge--or skyward on

To aerial reconnaissance, the brave

And brilliant, sun-bedappled, dancing waves

Below him as he rises with the dawn!

Nearby upon this same familiar beach,

Another of that species stands, and warms

His aged, ragged, soiled and ailing form,

And hides beneath his wing his head and beak.

I stand beside him. He seems not to care,

Resigned to yield unto the fate we share.