The Crossing   No sense of coming home in the shore approach, no figure on the weathered prow to gauge a distance, The slow swell regular beneath the keel, the freeboard high. Into the stiller waters, where the line Is held, and taken in, but no eye to take the measure of the eye. Who moves, goes about in silence. The heart’s search, that brief time when waters widened and the hills drew far away, now no horizon stays the night.     The Muffled Drum