The Charles River

Robert Lowell

1.

The sycamores throw shadows on the Charles,

as the fagged insect splinters, drops and joins

the infinite that scatters loosening leaves,

the long-haired escort and his short-skirted girl.

The black stream curves as if it led a lover—

my blood is pounding; in workaday times,

I take cold comfort from its heartelation,

its endless handstand round the single I,

the pumping and thumping of my overfevered wish...

For a week my heart has pointed elsewhere:

it brings us here tonight, and ties our hands—

if we leaned forward, and should dip a finger

into this river's momentary black flow,

infinite small stars would break like fish.