Where a single steeple keeps the sky And a scribbled wet of charcoal darks Laps lapsing to meet the day, --Crosshatched by wind's artistic lark,-- Monday quiet's come, as quiet may Upon one meditation-taken; After-silence serves some way For all the echo left the lake. The boathouse goes down to dock On knees of battered pilings. Suppliant to greet common rock, The dock goes flat as filings. Astute, the musing rock Lets the mirror water watch What it has mind enough to mock:-- Searchers who seek a latch. There is no back or access side To such a thing that is all is; And if you say inside, And take inside out to see what 'tis, I'll say, 'tis better far to glide Whatever offered surfaces And decode what pleasure there resides In such interstices Than creep through dark, however wide The open crosshatch seems or is, To pull apart, to peer at tides Whose motives are their business,-- And trouble them enough alive To wash our prayers with their sighs.