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 curve 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!