The primrose and the purple of the sky.
The boat pressed ever through the weeds and sedge
Which, rustling, clung her steadfast prow around;
The iris nodded at the water's edge,
Bats in the elm trees made a ghostly sound;
With whirring wings a wild duck sprang to sight
And flew, black-winged, towards the crimson light,
Leaving my solitude the more profound.
We moved towards the church, my boat and I—
The church that at the marsh edge stands alone;