From an old Portrait

So, I have seen her at last, at length,
The lone girl on the sea-strand,
Brown-legged, like a stork, wading the distant
Tide, her dress tucked up, puffed out
To her thighs, in the chill, grey,
Lonesome evening-dusk?—
And I, in the reeds and bulrushes, standing.

The swans this year came to our harbor,
Like all the sea-swimming birds
Ever delighted evening-lovers.
Some man with a gun went after them!
No matter! Though they never come again,
Paddling again our own channel,
All unaware, all unaware.