They leave their queens laying
In the ships,
And they go to the mountains. Looking up,
They believe they are swans,
And in her
Metamorphic dress, she kisses them,
Coming down in minuets-
The lake in which they swim in is stones-
A glacial ballroom;
In that they surcease- becoming forms
Of air,
Nested in her clutches- watch until
The stars turn down-
Trumpets douse, and their boys turn up
In a land they left so long ago,
With their queens slumbering like dousing
Embers with the other soft animals
In the arks they could no longer

by Robert Rorabeck

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