Not the moon.
A floweron the other side of the water.
The water sweeps past in flood,dragging a whole tree by the hair,a barn, a bridge.
The flowersings on the far bank.
Not a flower, a bird callinghidden among the darkest trees, musicover the water, making a silenceout of the brown folds of the river's cloak.
The moon.
No, a young man walkingunder the trees.
There are lanternsamong the leaves.
Tender, wise, merry,his face is awake with its own light,
I see it across the water as if close up.
A jester.
The music rings from his bells,gravely, a tune of sorrow,
I dance to it on my riverbank.
