Bob gripped Dick’s hand; and then no more was said, As, slowly, all about them rose The deadly after-damp; but close They sat together, hand in hand. Then their minds wandered; and Dick seemed to stand And shout till he was hoarse To speed his winning whippet down the course ... And Robert, with the ball Secure within his oxter charged ahead Straight for the goal, and none could hold, Though many tried a fall. Then dreaming they were lucky boys in bed, Once more, and lying snugly by each other: Dick, with his arms clasped tight about his brother, Whispered with failing breath Into the ear of death: "Come, Robert, cuddle closer, lad, it’s cold." THE BLIND ROWER And since he rowed his father home, His hand has never touched an oar. All day, he wanders on the shore, And hearkens to the swishing foam. Though blind from birth, he still could row As well as any lad with sight; And knew strange things that none may know Save those who live without the light. When they put out that Summer eve To sink the lobster-pots at sea, The sun was crimson in the sky; And not a breath was in the sky, The brooding, thunder-laden sky, That, heavily and wearily, Weighed down upon the waveless sea That scarcely seemed to heave. The pots were safely sunk; and then The father gave the word for home: He took the tiller in his hand, And, in his heart already home, He brought her nose round towards the land, To steer her straight for home. He never spoke, Nor stirred again: A sudden stroke, And he lay dead, With staring eyes, and lips of lead. The son rowed on, and nothing feared: And sometimes, merrily, He lifted up his voice, and sang, Both high and low, And loud and sweet: For he was ever gay at sea, And ever glad to row, And rowed as only blind men row: And little did the blind lad know That death was at his feet: For still he thought his father steered; Nor knew that he was all alone With death upon the open sea. So merrily, he rowed, and sang; And, strangely on the silence rang That lonely melody, As, through the livid, brooding gloom, By rock and reef, he rowed for home-- The blind man rowed the dead man home. But, as they neared the shore, He rested on his oar: And, wondering that his father kept So very quiet in the stern; He laughed, and asked him if he slept; And vowed he heard him snore just now. Though, when his father spoke no word, A sudden fear upon him came: And, crying on his father’s name, With flinching heart, he heard The water lapping on the shore; And all his blood ran cold, to feel The shingle grate beneath the keel: And stretching over towards the stern, His knuckle touched the dead man’s brow.