Yes, we boated him down to his home by the rapids. His home? No, rather his house let us call it. For how can a house be a home with naught in it? In house that is home must be love, warm and human, A voice that is sweet, a heart that is gentle, A soul that is true, and beside these a cradle That prattles and coos; and the quick-falling patter Of little white feet that run hither and thither. To his house, and not to his home, then, we brought him, For certainly nothing and no one was in it, Save himself and a dog, a bed and a table, Some chairs, a few books, and a--Picture. And this was the story that he told us in dying. The man might have lived, beyond doubt, had he cared to. But he didn't. No motive, he said. And he had none, As we felt later on, when he told us his story. So he died without word or sign. And in silence We stood and saw him go forth on his journey Without speaking a word, without a hand lifted To hold or to stop him, for we did not feel certain What was wisdom for one who went forth in such fashion. Perhaps it was best he should go and be over With pain, loss and trouble for ever and ever. Henry says, it were well we should all of us go When life has no aim and no hope; and no doing Remains to be done; and days are but eating And drinking and breathing, only these and no more. But before he went forth he gave me a message. "I loved her," so his story began. Henry, You remember the look on his face as he said it, As he lay with his eyes fixed fast on the Picture? "She was strong, and she drew me as life draws the young And as death draws the old. I could not resist her. She was vital with force, to attract and to hold. She raced me a race for my life, and she won it. I was man, not a boy, and I loved as man loves When the forces of life are in him full-flooded As rivers in meadows, when they flow to the sedges. Did she love me? Perhaps. Who can tell? She was woman, And hence she was dark as the night, and as hidden! Who could find her? Who the depth of her nature Might measure? I tried but could not. Then boldly I spake--spake as man speaks but once unto woman. True and straight did I say it man fashion. But she drew back offended; she shrank from my praying, And with coldness of tone and suspicion dismissed me. Had a man shown a tithe of that look in his eye, On his face, he or I would have died on the instant. But what can a man do, when scorned by a woman? So I left her.