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The morning, space for Leda

Dylan Thomas

1914 to 1953

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The morning, space for Leda
To stir the water with a buoyant foot,
And interlude for violins
To catch her sailing down the stream—
The phrases on the wood aren’t hers;
A fishing bird has notes of ivory
Alive within his craning throat—
Sees the moon still up,
Bright, well-held head,
And, for a pivot,
The shadows from the glassy sea
To wet the sky with tears,
And daub the unrisen sun with longing.
The swan makes strings of water in her wake ;
Between the moon and sun
There’s time to pluck a tune upon the harp,
Moisten the mouth of sleep
To kiss awake
My hand with honey that had closed upon a flower.
Between the rising and the falling
Spring may be green—
Under her cloth of trees no sorrow,
Under her grassy dress no limbs—
And winter follow like an echo
The summer voice so warm from fruit
That clustered round her shoulders,
And hid her uncovered breast.
The morning, too, is time for love,
When Leda, on a toe of down,
Dances a measure with the swan
Who holds her clasped inside his strong, white wings
And darkness, hand in hand with light,
Is blind with tears too frail to taste.