He walked in younger days at watersides,
Although not rich enough for boat or moor;
For life and water, both, have their high tides,
And low and neap, and many last shades more.

The water makes a sound that most who hear
Will find a boon, be they yet rich or poor,
Or to whatever creed they may adhere.
And so it was with him, in all-year climes:

The song that made his waking soul a seer,
The majesty of time and other times.
Connectedness he felt when he felt small:
It was among the least of his thought-crimes,

And though his life was full of slip, and fall,
This place still holds the secret to it all.