We sat together in the small, square room, br Late sunshine fell across the kitchen floor br In yellow patches. I could hear the boom br Of turning tide along the island shore. br 'Why, yes,' the old man shifted in his chair, br 'That's Grandfather's own chart hung by the door, br And that's his compass on the shelf up there. br He knew the world and foreign parts before br Most Island boys had learned their A.B.C.'s, br And how to cipher. He stood six feet two,-- br It's queer to think a man like that should freeze br Sealing, up north in Greenland, but it's true, br And him not forty. Here I'm eighty odd br And not been south of Boston. Guess he'd say br Folks nowadays are like as peas in a pod, br And one port same's another all the way br Eastport to Hong Kong. He'd be right at that.' br The kettle rocked with steam. The clock ticks told br The minutes off between us as we sat. br His eyes were age-filmed and his hands so old br They might have been dead roots. Dead roots? I thought br It can't be long before he's bound to go br After his Grandfather, to that same port br That's north of time, too far for charts to show br How currents run; what hidden reefs are near; br What headlands jut; what harbors to explore; br Or such a brass-bound compass serve to steer br The cruising souls along an unknown shore.