And since he rowed his father home, 
His hand has never touched an oar. 
All day he wanders on the shore, 
And hearkens to the swishing foam. 
Though blind from birth, he still could row 
As well as any lad with sight; 
And knew strange things that none may know 
Save those who live without the light.

When they put out that Summer eve 
To sink the lobster-pots at sea, 
The sun was crimson in the sky; 
And not a breath was in the sky; 
The brooding, thunder-laden sky, 
That, heavily and wearily, 
Weighed down upon the waveless sea 
That scarcely seamed to heave.

The pots were safely sunk; and then 
The father gave the word for home: 
He took the tiller in his hand, 
And, in hi s heart already home, 
He brought her nose round towards the land, 
To steer her straight for home.

He never spoke, 
Nor stirred again: 
A sudden stroke, 
And he lay dead, 
With staring eyes, and lips off lead.

The son rowed on, and nothing feared: 
And sometimes, merrily, 
He lifted up his voice, and sang, 
Both high and low, 
And loud and sweet: 
For he was ever gay at sea, 
And ever glad to row, 
And rowed as only blind men row: 
And little did the blind lad know 
That death was at his feet: 
For still he thought his father steered; 
Nor knew that he was all alone 
With death upon the open sea. 
So merrily, he rowed, and sang: 
And, strangely on the silence rang 
That lonely melody, 
As, through the livid, brooding gloam, 
By rock and reef, he rowed for home-- 
The blind man rowed the dead man home.

But, as they neared the shore, 
He rested on his oar: 
And, wondering that his father kept 
So very quiet in the stern, 
He laughed, and asked him if he slept; 
And vowed he heard him snore just now. 
Though, when his father spoke no word, 
A sudden fear upon him came: 
And, crying on his father's name, 
With flinching heart, he heard 
The water lapping on the shore; 
And all his blood ran cold, to feel 
The shingle grate beneath the keel: 
And stretching over towards the stern, 
His knuckle touched the dead man's brow.

But help was near at hand; 
And safe he came to land: 
Though none has ever known 
How he rowed in, alone, 
And never touched a reef. 
Some say they saw the dead man steer-- 
The dead man steer the blind man home-- 
Though, when they found him dead, 
His hand was cold as lead.

So, ever restless, to and fro, 
In every sort of weather, 
The blind lad wanders on the shore, 
And hearkens to the foam. 
His hand has never touched an oar, 
Since they came home together-- 
The blind, who rowed his father home-- 
The dear, who steered his blind son home.