Crossing the Water by Sylvia Plath

Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.
Where do the black trees go that drink here?
Their shadows must cover Canada.

A little light is filtering from the water flowers
Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:
They are round and flat and full of dark advice.

Cold words shake from the oar.
The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.
A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;
Stars opening among the lilies.
Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?
This is the silence of abandoned souls.



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