Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone, br plunges headlong into that black pond br where, absurd and out-of-season, a single swan br floats chaste as snow, taunting the clouded mind br which hungers to haul the white reflection down. br br The austere sun descends above the fen, br an orange cyclops-eye, scorning to look br longer on this landscape of chagrin; br feathered dark in thought, I stalk like a rook, br brooding as the winter night comes on.