Crossing the Water
Sylvia Plath

Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.

Where do the black trees go that drink there?

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 worlds shake from the oar.

The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.

A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale land;

Stars open among the lilies.

Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?

This is the silence of astounded souls.