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the white boat 77
And all dim, trim, and calm
That we might glance in on
Up there (we are below,
One of a crooked row
Of various small houses
Strung out along the creek)
As we went driving by
A time or two a week
And often as not saw
Out walking, with her husband
And dachshund, Molly Baugh.
And this, you understand,
Passed in the middle distance
Of our own lives, to the end --
My wife had met her once
Years back, at some fundraiser:
For twenty years and more
I only knew her look,
Her thoughtful way of walking,
Tones of the evening shore
In the wool and silk she wore,
Sea grays, and duns of beach,
Or the like quiet colors,
And her keen, pleasant eye,
And alert, slight tilt of head,
As they went slowly by:
And our talk of her
Brief, casual, infrequent,
And the years passed, one day
It was just she and the dachshund
Out walking, side by side
Taking their usual way,
Both showing now some gray,
Later we saw just her