  Under the lily shadow and the gold and the blue and mauve that the whin and the lilac pour down on the water, the fishes quiver. Over the green cold leaves and the rippled silver and the tarnished copper of its neck and beak, toward the deep black water beneath the arches, the swan floats slowly. Into the dark of the arch the swan floats and into the black depth of my sorrow it bears a white rose of flame. F. S. Flint
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