Night is wiping out colors and features and names from both sorts of strollers.
I notice a woman who waits, standing on the river bank.

Her silhouette has pearly-gray sky behind it, so that she seems to support the darkness.

I wonder what her name may be, but only discover the beauty of her feminine stillness.

Not far from that consummate caryatid, among the black columns of the tall trees laid against the lave of the blue, and beneath their cloudy branches, there are mystic enlacements which move to and fro; and hardly can one distinguish the two halves of which they are made, for the temple of night is enclosing them.
The ancient hut of a fisherman is outlined on the grassy slope.

Below it, crowding reeds rustle in the current; and where they are more sparse they fashion concentric orbs upon the gleaming, fleeing water.
The landscape has something exotic or antique about it.