Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
W. B. Yeats, The Wild Swans at Coole

Swan Lake, HAUSER

The Reaper's Sonata ‐ Haunting Dark Violin Ritual in the Crypt's Shadows, Immortal Frequencies