But, help was near at hand; And safe he came to land: Though none has ever known How he rowed in, alone, And never touched a reef. Some say they saw the dead man steer-- The dead man steer the blind man home-- Though, when they found him dead, His hand was cold as lead. So, ever restless, to and fro, In every sort of weather, The blind lad wanders on the shore, And hearkens to the foam. His hand has never touched an oar, Since they came home together-- The blind, who rowed his father home-- The dead, who steered his blind son home. THE FLUTE "Good-night!" he sang out cheerily: "Good-night!" and yet again: "Good-night!" And I was gay that night to be Once more in my clean countryside, Among the windy hills and wide. Six days of city slush and mud, Of hooting horn, and spattering wheel, Made me rejoice again to feel The tingling frost that fires the blood, And sets life burning keen and bright; And down the ringing road to stride The eager swinging stride that braces The straining thews from hip to heel: To breathe again the wind that sweeps Across the grassy, Northern steeps, From crystal deeps and starry spaces. And I was glad again to hear The old man’s greeting of good cheer: For every night for many a year At that same corner we had met, Summer and Winter, dry and wet: And though I never once had heard The old man speak another word, His cheery greeting at the bend Seemed like the welcome of a friend.