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All our geese are swans.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing save the waves and I May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die.

The jelous swan, agens hire deth that syngith.

The swan is not without cause dedicated to Apollo, because foreseeing his happiness in death, he dies with singing and pleasure.

Death darkens his eyes, and unplumes his wings, Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings: Live so, my Love, that when death shall come, Swan-like and sweet it may waft thee home.

The immortal swan that did her life deplore.

The dying swan, when years her temples pierce, In music-strains breathes out her life and verse, And, chanting her own dirge, tides on her wat'ry hearse.

The swan in the pool is singing, And up and down doth he steer, And, singing gently ever, Dips under the water clear.

And over the pond are sailing Two swans all white as snow; Sweet voices mysteriously wailing Pierce through me as onward they go. They sail along, and a ringing Sweet melody rises on high; And when the swans begin singing, They presently must die.

The swan, like the soul of the poet, By the dull world is ill understood.

There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.

The swan murmurs sweet strains with a flattering tongue, itself the singer of its own dirge.

The swan, with arched neck Between her white wings mantling proudly, rows Her state with oary feet.

Thus does the white swan, as he lies on the wet grass, when the Fates summon him, sing at the fords of Maeander.

Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can Her heart inform her tongue--the swan's down-feather That stands upon the swell at full of tide, And neither way inclines.

We bodged again, as I have been a swan With bootless labor swim against the tide And spend her strength with overmatching waves.

I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death, And from the organ-pipe of fraity sings His soul and body to their lasting rest.

Let music sound while he doth make his choice; Then if he lose he makes a swanlike end, Fading in music.

I will play the swan, And die in music.

Coal-black is better than another hue In that it scorns to bear another hue; For all the water in the ocean Can never turn the swan's black legs to white, Although she lave them hourly in the flood.