The last oar broke-- And this the current hurried at one stroke, Like a frail straw, towards the distant sea. The ferryman, with arms dropped helplessly Sank on his bench, forlorn. His loins with vain efforts broken, torn. Drifting, his barque struck somewhere, as by chance, He turned a glance Towards the bank behind him then--and saw He had not left the shore. The casements and the dials, one by one. Their huge eyes gazing in a foolish stare. Witnessed the ruin of his ardour there; But still the old, tenacious ferryman Firm in his teeth--for God knows when, indeed-- Held the green reed. THE SILENCE Ever since ending of the summer weather. When last the thunder and the lightning broke, Shatt'ring themselves upon it at one stroke, The Silence has not stirred, there in the heather. All round about stand steeples straight as stakes, And each its bell between its fingers shakes; All round about, with their three-storied loads, The teams prowl down the roads; All round about, where'er the pine woods end, The wheel creaks on along its rutty bed, But not a sound is strong enough to rend That space intense and dead. Since summer, thunder-laden, last was heard. The Silence has not stirred; And the broad heath-land, where the nights sink down Beyond the sand-hills brown. Beyond the endless thickets closely set, To the far borders of the far-away. Prolongs It yet. Even the winds disturb not as they go The boughs of those long larches, bending low Where the marsh-water lies, In which Its vacant eyes Gaze at themselves unceasing, stubbornly. Only sometimes, as on their way they move, The noiseless shadows of the clouds above. Or of some great bird's hov'ring flight on high, Brush It in passing by. Since the last bolt that scored the earth aslant, Nothing has pierced the Silence dominant. Of those who cross Its vast immensity, Whether at twilight or at dawn it be, There is not one but feels The dread of the Unknown that It instils; An ample force supreme, It holds Its sway Uninterruptedly the same for aye. Dark walls of blackest fir-trees bar from sight The outlook towards the paths of hope and light; Huge, pensive junipers Affright from far the passing travellers; Long, narrow paths stretch their straight lines unbent. Till they fork off in curves malevolent; And the sun, ever shifting, ceaseless lends Fresh aspects to the mirage whither tends Bewilderment Since the last bolt was forged amid the storm, The polar Silence at the corners four Of the wide heather-land has stirred no more. Old shepherds, whom their hundred years have worn To things all dislocate and out of gear, And their old dogs, ragged, tired-out, and torn. Oft watch It, on the soundless lowlands near, Or downs of gold beflecked with shadows' flight, Sit down immensely there beside the night.