The Ferry.

We left “The Golden Fleece” behind.
Its doorway shot a festal glow
Into the darkness, and the mind
Bore freight of good will. It is so
When burghers gather at the end
Of conclaves where all hearts agree.
We walked the white road till the bend
Brought us to knowledge of the sea.
The sea that brooded in the night
Of things profound beyond our ken.
'Neath the still stars' compassioning light
We walked, two children and two men,
They in the van, we at their heels.
They talked of statecraft and of war,
Of banks and markets and of deals,
Those seigneurs grave who went before.
Behind us, where a salt marsh lay,
A lonely morepork's bitter cry
Made sweeter and departed day
That we had loved, that friend and I,
Dear enemy with whom I shared
The jests of childhood. In our ears
The rollers chanted as we fared,
And there did seem a truce to tears.
We hardly spoke at all, I think,
But trod the sand and sniffed the dark.
So came we to the estuary's brink,
And gave the call, and heard the barque
Put out. Like voices in a dream
The rowlocks chirrupped us as we stood
On its slow coming. It did seem
That God who made the night was good.

—C. R. Allen.

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