From the Newark Evening Star, February 8, 1915.
I watched a sail until it dropped from sight
Over a rounding sea. A gleam of white—
A last far-flashed farewell, and like a thought
Slipt out of mind, it vanished and was not.
Yet to the helmsman standing at the wheel
Broad seas still stretched beneath the gliding keel.
Disaster? Change? He felt no slightest sign,
Nor dreamed he of that far horizon line.
So may it be, perchance, when down the tide
Our dear ones vanish, peacefully they glide
On level seas, nor mark the unknown bound.
We call it death—to them ’tis life beyond.
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