"The immortal swan that did her life deplore."
An American poet has the following beautiful lines:
"'What is that, mother?'
'The swan, my love;
He is floating down from his native grove,
No lov'd one now, no nestling nigh:
He is floating down by himself to die.
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.'"