The tree-toad's call from branches dead and green,
And from the grass a cricket's rasping cry;
An afterglow across the Eastern sky
Red as a far-flung fire-brand's ruddy sheen;
The lapping of swift ripples shot between
Old logs that rigid in the current lie,
The shadow of our boat that passes by
Above brown sands that dimly now are seen.

This was to float with silence and the night
Wove through the mesh of twilight like a strand;
To note the twisting of the bat's weird flight
And glint of fire-flies on the shelving sand,
To be removed from earthly essence quite
Two shadows drifting into shadow-land.