Classic Poem

Here in my vaster pools, as white as snow or milk,
(In water black as Styx) swims the wild Swan, the Ilke,
Of Hollanders so termed, no niggard of his breath,
(As poets say of swans, which only sing in death)
But oft as other birds is heard his tunes to rote,
Which like a trumpet comes from his long arched throat,
And tow'rds this wat'ry kind, about the flashes' brim,
Some cloven-footed are, by nature not to swim.
There stalks the stately Crane, as though he marched in war,
By him that hath the Hern, which (by the fishy carr)
Can fetch with their long necks, out of the rush and reed,
Snigs, fry, and yellow frogs, whereon they often feed:
And under them again (that water never take,
But by some ditch's side, or little shallow lake
Lie dabbling night and day) the palate-pleasing Snite,
The Bidcock, and like them the Redshanks, that delight
Together still to be, in some small reedy bed,
In which these little fowls in summer's time were bred.
The buzzing Bitter sits, which through his hollow bill
A sudden bellowing sends, which many times doth fill
The neighbouring marsh with noise, as though a bull did roar.
But scarcely have I yet recited half my store:
And with my wondrous flocks of Wild Geese come I then,
Which look as though alone they peopled all the fen,
Which here in winter time, when all is overflowed,
And want of solid sward enforceth them abroad,
Th' abundance then is seen that my full fens do yield,
That almost through the isle do pester every field.