Flinging its arc of silver bubbles, quickly shifts the moon From side to side of us as we go down its path; I sit on the deck at midnight and watch it slipping and sliding, Under my tilted chair, like a thin film of spilt water. It is weaving a river of light to take the place of this river; A river where we shall drift all night, then come to rest in its shallows; And then I shall wake from my drowsiness and look down from some dim treetop Over white lakes of cotton, like moonfields on every side. |