And on the deck of the drumming liner
Watching the furrow that widens behind you,
You shall not think 'the past is finished,'
Or 'the future is before us.'
At nightfall, in the rigging and the aerial,
Is a voice descanting (though not to the ear,
The murmuring shell of time, and not in any language)
'Fare forward, you who think that you are voyaging;
You are not those who saw the harbour
Receding, or those who will disembark.
Here between the hither and the farther shore
While time is withdrawn, consider the future
And the past with an equal mind."
To what shall I compare the world?
It is like the wake
Vanishing behind a boat
That has sailed away at dawn.