August Moon

(To F. S.)         In the smooth grey heaven is poised the pale half moon         And sheds on the wide grey river a broken reflection.         Out from the low church-tower the boats are moored         After the heat of the day, and await the dark.         And here, where the side of the road shelves into the river         At the gap where barges load and horses drink,         There are no horses.    And the river is full         And the water stands by the shore and does not lap.         And a barge lies up for the night this side of the island,         The bargeman sits in the bows and smokes his pipe         And his wife by the cabin stirs.    Behind me voices pass.         Calm sky, calm river: and a few calm things reflected.         And all as yet keep their colours; the island osiers,         The ash-white spots of umbelliferous flowers,         And the yellow clay of its bank, the barge's brown sails         That are furled up the mast and then make a lean triangle         To the end of the hoisted boom, and the high dark slips         Where they used to build vessels, and now build them no more.         All in the river reflected in quiet colours.         Beyond the river sweeps round in a bend, and is vast,         A wide grey level under the motionless sky         And the waxing moon, clean cut in the mole-grey sky.         Silence.    Time is suspended; that the light fails         One would not know were it not for the moon in the sky,         And the broken moon in the water, whose fractures tell         Of slow broad ripples that otherwise do not show,         Maturing imperceptibly from a pale to a deeper gold,         A golden half moon in the sky, and broken gold in the water.         In the water, tranquilly severing, joining, gold:         Three or four little plates of gold on the river:         A little motion of gold between the dark images         Of two tall posts that stand in the grey water.         There are voices passing, a murmur of quiet voices,         A woman's laugh, and children going home.         A whispering couple, leaning over the railings,         And, somewhere, a little splash as a dog goes in.         I have always known all this, it has always been,         There is no change anywhere, nothing will ever change.         I heard a story, a crazy and tiresome myth.         Listen! behind the twilight a deep low sound         Like the constant shutting of very distant doors,         Doors that are letting people over there         Out to some other place beyond the end of the sky.