Bright leaves and the pale grass turn grey
Now, sudden as a thought, one swan
Moves on the water and is gone;
The broad and liberal flood of day
Ebbs to thin twilight, and night soon
Out of the wells of dark fills up
The valley like a brimming cup
With silver waters of the moon.
This is the ardent hour of peace;
The Avon like a mirror lies
Under the pale November skies;
The shaken moon and the Still trees
Trouble the water not a whit.
And, secret as a hidden word,
One note is spoken by one bird
As if the water answered it.
