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!