Barges on the Hudson
Going up the river, or down, their tuneless look
Is of men grown poorer who, though ageing, wear
Some majesty of the commonplace. Old barges
Are cousin to those whom poverty becomes—
To late November, the north, nightfall, all the
Deprived whom increment of loss enlarges.
They have no faces, have no voices, even
Of their own selves no motion. Yet they move.
With what salt grace, with a dim pride of ocean
Uncompassable by a fussy tug,
Prim nurse that drags or nudges the old ones on.
They must borrow their colors from the river, mirror
The river’s muddy silver, in dulled red echo
A sundown that beds in soot. Their freight, rusty,
Faded, cindery, is like the past
The charwoman deals with. Yesterday’s business
They carry with the dignity of the blind.
By night the river is black, they are black’s shadows
Passing. The unwrinkled stars dispute that darkness
Alone with a lantern on a one-eyed spar.
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