Somewhere I read, in an old book whose name Is gone from me, I read that when the days Of a man are counted and his business done, There comes up the shore at evening, with the tide, To the place where he sits, a boat— And in the boat, from the place where he sits, he sees Dim in the dusk, dim and yet so familiar, The faces of his friends long dead; and knows They come for him, brought in upon the tide, To take him where men go at set of day. Then, rising, with his hands in theirs, he goes Between them his last steps, that are the first Of the new life; and with the tide they pass, Their shaken sail grown small upon the moon. Often I thought of this, and pictured me How many a man that lives with throngs about him, Yet straining in the twilight for that boat Shall scarce make out one figure in the stern, And that so faint, its features shall perplex him With doubtful memories—and his heart hang back. But others, rising as they see the sail Increase upon the sunset, hasten down, Hands out and eyes elated; for they see, Head over head, crowding from bow to stern, Repeopling their long loneliness with smiles, The faces of their friends—and such go out Content upon the ebb-tide, with safe hearts. But never To worker summoned when his day was done Did mounting tide bear such a freight of friends As stole to you up the white wintry shingle That night while those that watched you thought you slept. Softly they came, and beached the boat, and stood In the still cove, under the icy stars, Your last-born and the dear loves of your heart, And with them all the friends you called by name, And all men that have loved right more than ease, And honour above honours; all who gave Free-handed of their best for other men, And thought the giving taking; they who knew Man’s natural state is effort: up and up— All these were there, so great a company Perchance you marvelled, wondering what great craft Had brought that throng unnumbered to the cove Where the boys used to beach their light canoe After old happy picnics.