Half sunken in a pool, yet floating on
To reach some distant shore. The swallows swing
Their airplanes down and wet their beaks at dawn,
And men awake to hear the thrushes sing.
When day grows old and sun is westward bound,
They stretch the shadowed trees across the lake,
And duck and loon and gull and teal have found
A place which fishermen will not forsake;
And when the moon receives its silvered crown,
The waters, like magicians, reach into