The boatman pierced the shrouding mist
That hides the farther shore,
And pushed across the dark, still stream
With strong and silent oar . . . .
I reached lame arms, my eyes were wet,
For I was left behind.
Beneath his stern and shaggy brows,
The boatmen’s eyes were kind . . . .
I linger on the sunlit side
With eyes no longer wet;
The boatman tarries for a while.
But he will not forget.