Going up the river, or down, their tuneless look 
Is of men grown poorer who, though ageing, wear 
Some majesty of the commonplace. Old barges 
Are cousin to those whom poverty becomes — 
To late November, the north, nightfall, all the 
Deprived whom increment of loss enlarges. 
They have no faces, have no voices, even 
Of their own selves no motion. Yet they move. 
With what salt grace, with a dim pride of ocean 
Uncompassable by a fussy tug, 
Prim nurse that drags or nudges the old ones on. 
They must borrow their colors from the river, mirror 
The river's muddy silver, in dulled red echo 
A sundown that beds in soot. Their freight, rusty, 
Faded, cindery, is like the past 
The charwoman deals with. Yesterday's business 
They carry with the dignity of the blind. 
By night the river is black, they are black's shadows 
Passing. The unwrinkled stars dispute that darkness 
Alone with a lantern on a one-eyed spar.