Our echoes roll from soul to soul

by John MacBeath Watkins

One of my wooden boat friends, Rick, in Australia, is dying, and doing so with dignity and fortitude. I posted this for him:

from The Princess: The Splendour Falls on Castle Walls

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

I'm particularly fond of that line about how our echoes roll from soul to soul. Rick, you are a part of all of us now, and what we've learned from you will live on in us, and I hope will allow us to die with the dignity and fortitude you display.