WITH THE TIDE[6th January 1919]
Somewhere I read, in an old book whose nameIs gone from me, I read that when the daysOf a man are counted and his business done,There comes up the shore at evening, with the tide,To the place where he sits, a boat—And in the boat, from the place where he sits, he seesDim in the dusk, dim and yet so familiar,The faces of his friends long dead; and knowsThey come for him, brought in upon the tide,To take him where men go at set of day.Then, rising, with his hands in theirs, he goesBetween them his last steps, that are the firstOf the new life; and with the tide they pass,Their shaken sail grown small upon the moon.Often I thought of this, and pictured meHow many a man that lives with throngs about him,Yet straining in the twilight for that boatShall scarce make out one figure in the stern,And that so faint, its features shall perplex himWith doubtful memories—and his heart hang back.But others, rising as they see the sailIncrease upon the sunset, hasten down,Hands out and eyes elated; for they see,Head over head, crowding from bow to stern,Repeopling their long loneliness with smiles,The faces of their friends—and such go outContent upon the ebb-tide, with safe hearts.But neverTo worker summoned when his day was doneDid mounting tide bear such a freight of friendsAs stole to you up the white wintry shingleThat night while those that watched you thought you slept.Softly they came, and beached the boat, and stoodIn the still cove, under the icy stars,Your last-born and the dear loves of your heart,And with them all the friends you called by name,And all men that have loved right more than ease,And honour above honours; all who gaveFree-handed of their best for other men,And thought the giving taking; they who knewMan’s natural state is effort: up and up—All these were there, so great a companyPerchance you marvelled, wondering what great craftHad brought that throng unnumbered to the coveWhere the boys used to beach their light canoeAfter old happy picnics.But these your friends and children, to whose handsCommitted in the silent night you roseAnd took your last faint steps—These led you down, O great American,Down to the winter night and the white beach;And there you saw that the huge hull that waitedWas not as are the boats of the other dead,Frail craft for a light passage;But first of a long line of towering ships,Storm-worn and Ocean-weary every one,The ships you launched, the ships you manned, the shipsThat now, returning from their sacred questWith the thrice-sacred burden of their dead,Lay waiting there to take you forth with them,Out on the flood-tide, to some farther quest.
Somewhere I read, in an old book whose nameIs gone from me, I read that when the daysOf a man are counted and his business done,There comes up the shore at evening, with the tide,To the place where he sits, a boat—And in the boat, from the place where he sits, he seesDim in the dusk, dim and yet so familiar,The faces of his friends long dead; and knowsThey come for him, brought in upon the tide,To take him where men go at set of day.Then, rising, with his hands in theirs, he goesBetween them his last steps, that are the firstOf the new life; and with the tide they pass,Their shaken sail grown small upon the moon.Often I thought of this, and pictured meHow many a man that lives with throngs about him,Yet straining in the twilight for that boatShall scarce make out one figure in the stern,And that so faint, its features shall perplex himWith doubtful memories—and his heart hang back.But others, rising as they see the sailIncrease upon the sunset, hasten down,Hands out and eyes elated; for they see,Head over head, crowding from bow to stern,Repeopling their long loneliness with smiles,The faces of their friends—and such go outContent upon the ebb-tide, with safe hearts.But neverTo worker summoned when his day was doneDid mounting tide bear such a freight of friendsAs stole to you up the white wintry shingleThat night while those that watched you thought you slept.Softly they came, and beached the boat, and stoodIn the still cove, under the icy stars,Your last-born and the dear loves of your heart,And with them all the friends you called by name,And all men that have loved right more than ease,And honour above honours; all who gaveFree-handed of their best for other men,And thought the giving taking; they who knewMan’s natural state is effort: up and up—All these were there, so great a companyPerchance you marvelled, wondering what great craftHad brought that throng unnumbered to the coveWhere the boys used to beach their light canoeAfter old happy picnics.But these your friends and children, to whose handsCommitted in the silent night you roseAnd took your last faint steps—These led you down, O great American,Down to the winter night and the white beach;And there you saw that the huge hull that waitedWas not as are the boats of the other dead,Frail craft for a light passage;But first of a long line of towering ships,Storm-worn and Ocean-weary every one,The ships you launched, the ships you manned, the shipsThat now, returning from their sacred questWith the thrice-sacred burden of their dead,Lay waiting there to take you forth with them,Out on the flood-tide, to some farther quest.
Somewhere I read, in an old book whose nameIs gone from me, I read that when the daysOf a man are counted and his business done,There comes up the shore at evening, with the tide,To the place where he sits, a boat—And in the boat, from the place where he sits, he seesDim in the dusk, dim and yet so familiar,The faces of his friends long dead; and knowsThey come for him, brought in upon the tide,To take him where men go at set of day.Then, rising, with his hands in theirs, he goesBetween them his last steps, that are the firstOf the new life; and with the tide they pass,Their shaken sail grown small upon the moon.
Somewhere I read, in an old book whose name
Is gone from me, I read that when the days
Of a man are counted and his business done,
There comes up the shore at evening, with the tide,
To the place where he sits, a boat—
And in the boat, from the place where he sits, he sees
Dim in the dusk, dim and yet so familiar,
The faces of his friends long dead; and knows
They come for him, brought in upon the tide,
To take him where men go at set of day.
Then, rising, with his hands in theirs, he goes
Between them his last steps, that are the first
Of the new life; and with the tide they pass,
Their shaken sail grown small upon the moon.
Often I thought of this, and pictured meHow many a man that lives with throngs about him,Yet straining in the twilight for that boatShall scarce make out one figure in the stern,And that so faint, its features shall perplex himWith doubtful memories—and his heart hang back.
Often I thought of this, and pictured me
How many a man that lives with throngs about him,
Yet straining in the twilight for that boat
Shall scarce make out one figure in the stern,
And that so faint, its features shall perplex him
With doubtful memories—and his heart hang back.
But others, rising as they see the sailIncrease upon the sunset, hasten down,Hands out and eyes elated; for they see,Head over head, crowding from bow to stern,Repeopling their long loneliness with smiles,The faces of their friends—and such go outContent upon the ebb-tide, with safe hearts.
But others, rising as they see the sail
Increase upon the sunset, hasten down,
Hands out and eyes elated; for they see,
Head over head, crowding from bow to stern,
Repeopling their long loneliness with smiles,
The faces of their friends—and such go out
Content upon the ebb-tide, with safe hearts.
But neverTo worker summoned when his day was doneDid mounting tide bear such a freight of friendsAs stole to you up the white wintry shingleThat night while those that watched you thought you slept.Softly they came, and beached the boat, and stoodIn the still cove, under the icy stars,Your last-born and the dear loves of your heart,And with them all the friends you called by name,And all men that have loved right more than ease,And honour above honours; all who gaveFree-handed of their best for other men,And thought the giving taking; they who knewMan’s natural state is effort: up and up—All these were there, so great a companyPerchance you marvelled, wondering what great craftHad brought that throng unnumbered to the coveWhere the boys used to beach their light canoeAfter old happy picnics.
But never
To worker summoned when his day was done
Did mounting tide bear such a freight of friends
As stole to you up the white wintry shingle
That night while those that watched you thought you slept.
Softly they came, and beached the boat, and stood
In the still cove, under the icy stars,
Your last-born and the dear loves of your heart,
And with them all the friends you called by name,
And all men that have loved right more than ease,
And honour above honours; all who gave
Free-handed of their best for other men,
And thought the giving taking; they who knew
Man’s natural state is effort: up and up—
All these were there, so great a company
Perchance you marvelled, wondering what great craft
Had brought that throng unnumbered to the cove
Where the boys used to beach their light canoe
After old happy picnics.
But these your friends and children, to whose handsCommitted in the silent night you roseAnd took your last faint steps—These led you down, O great American,Down to the winter night and the white beach;And there you saw that the huge hull that waitedWas not as are the boats of the other dead,Frail craft for a light passage;But first of a long line of towering ships,Storm-worn and Ocean-weary every one,The ships you launched, the ships you manned, the shipsThat now, returning from their sacred questWith the thrice-sacred burden of their dead,Lay waiting there to take you forth with them,Out on the flood-tide, to some farther quest.
But these your friends and children, to whose hands
Committed in the silent night you rose
And took your last faint steps—
These led you down, O great American,
Down to the winter night and the white beach;
And there you saw that the huge hull that waited
Was not as are the boats of the other dead,
Frail craft for a light passage;
But first of a long line of towering ships,
Storm-worn and Ocean-weary every one,
The ships you launched, the ships you manned, the ships
That now, returning from their sacred quest
With the thrice-sacred burden of their dead,
Lay waiting there to take you forth with them,
Out on the flood-tide, to some farther quest.