And after that the dark;
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho’ 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 crost the bar.
A long silence. Then: “I have no pilot,” he said. “I drift rudderless. I am bound to make shipwreck on the bar.”
She did not seem to hear his words. Her mind was far away. Her eyes were on the sea, gazing upon that path of shimmering light.
“Nigel,” she said, “there was no farewell—no farewell, belovèd; but oh, the dark—the dark—the dark!”