The skiff was like a crescent, ghost of some moon departed,
  Frail, white, she rocked and curtseyed as the red wave she crossed,
And the thing within sat paddling, and the crescent dipped and darted,
  Flying on, again was shouting, but the words were lost.

I said, “That thing is hooded; I could hear but that floweth
  The great hood below its mouth:”  then the bird made reply. 
“If they know not, more’s the pity, for the little shrew-mouse knoweth,
  And the kite knows, and the eagle, and the glead and pye.”

And he stooped to whet his beak on the stones of the coping;
  And when once more the shout came, in querulous tones he spake,
“What I said was ‘more’s the pity;’ if the heart be long past hoping,
  Let it say of death, ‘I know it,’ or doubt on and break.

“Men must die—­one dies by day, and near him moans his mother,
  They dig his grave, tread it down, and go from it full loth: 
And one dies about the midnight, and the wind moans, and no other,
  And the snows give him a burial—­and God loves them both.

“The first hath no advantage—­it shall not soothe his slumber
  That a lock of his brown hair his father aye shall keep;
For the last, he nothing grudgeth, it shall nought his quiet cumber,
  That in a golden mesh of his callow eaglets sleep.

“Men must die when all is said, e’en the kite and glead know it,
  And the lad’s father knew it, and the lad, the lad too;
It was never kept a secret, waters bring it and winds blow it,
  And he met it on the mountain—­why then make ado?”

With that he spread his white wings, and swept across the water,
  Lit upon the hooded head, and it and all went down;
And they laughed as they went under, and I woke, “the old man’s daughter.” 
  And looked across the slope of grass, and at Cromer town.

And I said, “Is that the sky, all gray and silver-suited?”
  And I thought, “Is that the sea that lies so white and wan? 
I have dreamed as I remember:  give me time—­I was reputed
  Once to have a steady courage—­O, I fear ’tis gone!”

And I said, “Is this my heart? if it be, low ’tis beating
  So he lies on the mountain, hard by the eagles’ brood;
I have had a dream this evening, while the white and gold were fleeting,
  But I need not, need not tell it—­where would be the good?

“Where would be the good to them, his father and his mother? 
  For the ghost of their dead hope appeareth to them still. 
While a lonely watch-fire smoulders, who its dying red would smother,
  That gives what little light there is to a darksome hill?”

I rose up, I made no moan, I did not cry nor falter,
  But slowly in the twilight I came to Cromer town. 
What can wringing of the hands do that which is ordained to alter? 
  He had climbed, had climbed the mountain, he would ne’er come down.