In time enough the ferryman’s pulling arm
Will beach his bent-bowed bark upon the sands
Of yonder dark-masked land, and wave his hand–
White-washed bone that flies a nightsilk shroud.
So cross must I–and useless being cross–
The sleepy rippling satin flood between
Youth’s scattered hopes and the final result:
An all-encircling, all enclosing web
Which I as child to corpse have spun myself
From these first golden threads.
[AMW on October 22, 2016, 6:26pm, Tea And Poetry in DUMBO]