Hello, this is Richard. And in a moment, I'm going to read a beautiful poem for the

autumn months, written by the Irish poet W.B. Yates. Many of his longer poems are based on

Irish mythology. This is a shorter poem that describes some swans and the amazing sound that they make

when their wings beat through the air.

And before the poem, I would like to thank TweetSpeak, who support us on Patreon. Most of our supporters are families, but TweetSpeak is slightly different.

They run a fantastic website dedicated to poetry at tweet speakpoetry.com.

TweetSpeak inspires the world with poetry and poetic things. So do drop over there and be inspired.

And now our poem.

The Wild Swans of Cool by William Butler Yates.

The trees are in their autumn beauty.

The woodland paths are dry. Under the October twilight, the water mirrors

a still sky. Upon the brimming water, among the stones are nine and fifty swans.

The 19th autumn has come upon me since I first made my count.

I saw, before I had well finished, all suddenly mount and scatter,

wheeling in great broken rings upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, and now my heart is sore. All's changed since I,

hearing at twilight, the first time on this shore, the bell beat of their wings above my head, trod with a lighter tread. Unwearied still, lover by lover, they paddle in the cold, companionable streams, or climb the air.

Their hearts have not grown old.

Passion or conquest, wander where they will, attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water, mysterious, beautiful.

Among what rushes will they build?

By what lakes edge or pool delight men's eyes?

...