When night believes itself alone
It is most natural, conceals
No artifice. The open moon
With webs in sky and water wields
The slightest wave. This vision yields
To one sole theme of semblance, land
Leasing each wave the palest peals
Of bright apparent notes of sand.
The bathers whitely come and stand.
Water diffuses them, their hair
Like seaweed slurs the shoulders, and
Their voices in the moonstrung air
Go plucked of words. Now wading where
The moon's misprisions salve them in-
To silver, they are unaware
How lost they are when they begin
To mix with water, making then
Gestures of blithe obedience,
As five Danilovas within
The soft compulsions of their dance.
- Richard Wilbur
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