I walked out among the pretty grasses, Bowing their heads, all dancing fair and free— On the deep lake, as clear as any glass is, That Prince of birds, the swan I then did see. As I looked on, the lake seemed all ablaze, So that I feared the swan would murdered be— Then burnt the fire out, and left his rays To make the swan a crown of sovereignty. This is my soul, said I, and this is death— Grant that I might so little heed the change! Oh, grant I may no longer covet breath When aether fills my lungs in valleys strange.