Sky is such softness, is such dark, 
Mat as the pelt of a black panther is 
In his den's bight. Under the mat soft black 
Flows — a moving mirror of that pure dark — 
The river. Sparse lights debate or affirm a farther shore. 
But darkness is at flood where, slow, black moves upon black 
Yet lifts two lanterns 
A boat's length apart; they kindle the water 
To brief life, moving down the river. 
And vanish.