Full white moon upon a waste of ocean,High full tide upon the sandy shore,In the fisher’s cot without a motion,Waiteth he that never shall sail more.Waiteth he, and one sad comrade sighing,Speaking lowly, says, “Without a doubtHe will rest soon. Some One calls the dying,When the tide goes out.”Some One calls the tide, when in its flowing,It hath touched the limits of its bound;Some great Voice, and all the billows knowingWhat omnipotence is in that sound,Hasten back to ocean, none delayingFor man’s profit, pleasuring or doubt,Backward to their source, not one wave straying,And the tide is out.Some One calls the soul o’er life’s dark ocean,When its tide breaks high upon the land,372And it listens with such glad emotion,As the “called” alone can understand.Listens, hastens, to its source of being,Leaves the sands of Time without a doubt;While we sadly wait, as yet but seeingThat the tide is out.
Full white moon upon a waste of ocean,High full tide upon the sandy shore,In the fisher’s cot without a motion,Waiteth he that never shall sail more.Waiteth he, and one sad comrade sighing,Speaking lowly, says, “Without a doubtHe will rest soon. Some One calls the dying,When the tide goes out.”
Full white moon upon a waste of ocean,
High full tide upon the sandy shore,
In the fisher’s cot without a motion,
Waiteth he that never shall sail more.
Waiteth he, and one sad comrade sighing,
Speaking lowly, says, “Without a doubt
He will rest soon. Some One calls the dying,
When the tide goes out.”
Some One calls the tide, when in its flowing,It hath touched the limits of its bound;Some great Voice, and all the billows knowingWhat omnipotence is in that sound,Hasten back to ocean, none delayingFor man’s profit, pleasuring or doubt,Backward to their source, not one wave straying,And the tide is out.
Some One calls the tide, when in its flowing,
It hath touched the limits of its bound;
Some great Voice, and all the billows knowing
What omnipotence is in that sound,
Hasten back to ocean, none delaying
For man’s profit, pleasuring or doubt,
Backward to their source, not one wave straying,
And the tide is out.
Some One calls the soul o’er life’s dark ocean,When its tide breaks high upon the land,372And it listens with such glad emotion,As the “called” alone can understand.Listens, hastens, to its source of being,Leaves the sands of Time without a doubt;While we sadly wait, as yet but seeingThat the tide is out.
Some One calls the soul o’er life’s dark ocean,
When its tide breaks high upon the land,
372
And it listens with such glad emotion,
As the “called” alone can understand.
Listens, hastens, to its source of being,
Leaves the sands of Time without a doubt;
While we sadly wait, as yet but seeing
That the tide is out.
This was my last message from Christine. For a few years she had sent me a paper or magazine containing a poem or story she thought I would like. Then Sarah Lochrigg sent me a Glasgow paper, with a sorrowful notice of her death in it, declaring that “it could hardly be called death. She just stepped from this life, into the next.” Sarah, in a later letter, added she had been busy in her house all morning and as cheerful and interested about the coming spring cleaning as if she was only twenty years old. About fifteen minutes before twelve she said, “Now, I am tired. I will rest awhile,” and she drew her father’s large chair before the open door. The sea and the boats were spread out before her and the village lay at her feet. She could see the men fishing and the women going about the streets.
“The tide is well in,” she said to her maid, “it will be high tide at three minutes before noon. Call me in about half an hour.”
So she was left alone and I do not doubt it was then she heard that unfathomable call, that voice from some distant world far off yet near, and that her soul instantly answered it. She did not leave this373world worn out with pain and sickness. She went without hesitation, without fear, without seeking any human help.
And I tell myself that she doubtless went out with the full tide and that some convoy of the Sea Angels was with her, for His way is in the sea, and His path in the great waters, and His footsteps are not known. She died no death to mourn, for “Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord!”
Transcriber NotesHyphenation standardized.Original spellings, including expectit and keepit, preserved as printed.
Transcriber Notes
Hyphenation standardized.
Original spellings, including expectit and keepit, preserved as printed.