The swallows flew in the curves of an eight

   Above the river-gleam

   In the wet June’s last beam:

Like little crossbows animate

The swallows flew in the curves of an eight

   Above the river-gleam.

Planing up shavings of crystal spray

   A moor-hen darted out

   From the bank thereabout,

And through the stream-shine ripped his way;

Planing up shavings of crystal spray

   A moor-hen darted out.

Closed were the kingcups; and the mead

   Dripped in monotonous green,

   Though the day’s morning sheen

Had shown it golden and honeybee’d;

Closed were the kingcups; and the mead

   Dripped in monotonous green.

And never I turned my head, alack,

   While these things met my gaze

   Through the pane’s drop-drenched glaze,

To see the more behind my back . . .

O never I turned, but let, alack,

   These less things hold my gaze!