Along the dark bank of the river
The moon through the laurel strikes
With the best inner parts of itself.
Where the ground is bright, it is water.
Part of the moon is its blackness.
It is still, that the river may flow.
I look for the light at its darkest
And step there mile after mile
And do not fall away.
Snakes slip wholly into the moon
As into the source of their lives;
Bent fish leap out of it quickly
And shine before they return,
And birds hold branches as though
Borne somewhere safely by sleep
As the river would bear them,
Small shadows, tottering hugely,
And not to fall away.
At last the lake opens my eyes
As it opens the moon from the forest
Like a great, shining book on its table.
I stand by my dew-heavy blanket
Looking over the vast, trembling script
And joy slides out of my breast
Winding back in a curve through the woods
Where I walked in the dark steps of moonlight
And did not fall away.
I stand in my own coming sleep,
A tall spirit ready to wind
Like a ball of bright thread the wild river
All night around the still form
That shall lie exposed in the open,
Sustained at the heart of the danger
I have passed in the thickets this night
Which shall keep me safe till I wake
And rise, and fall away.
Leave a Reply