THE CANAL.

No dip and dart of swallows wakes the black

Slumber of the canal:— a mirror dead

For lack of loveliness remembered

From ancient azures and green trees, for lack

Of some white beauty given and flung back,

Secret, to her that gave: no sun has bled

To wake an echo here of answering red;

The surface stirs to no leaf's wind-blown track.

Between unseeing walls the waters rest,

Lifeless and hushed, till suddenly a swan

Glides from some broader river blue as day,

And with the mirrored magic of his breast

Creates within that barren water-way

New life, new loveliness, and passes on.