H. D.

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.
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