he lives as if he knows the secret
that everyone else spends their lives
trying to discover

Sunset and evening star,
   And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
   When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
   Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
   Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
   And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
   When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
   The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
   When I have crossed the bar.

THE WIND stops, the wind begins.
The wind says stop, begin.
  
A sea shovel scrapes the sand floor.
The shovel changes, the floor changes.
  
The sandpipers, maybe they know.
Maybe a three-pointed foot can tell.
Maybe the fog moon they fly to, guesses.
  
The sandpipers cheep "Here" and get away.
Five of them fly and keep together flying.
  
Night hair of some sea woman
Curls on the sand when the sea leaves
The salt tide without a good-by.
  
Boxes on the beach are empty.
Shake 'em and the nails loosen.
They have been somewhere.

You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

That day in Moscow, it will all come true,
when, for the last time, I take my leave,
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,
Leaving my shadow still to be with you.