Plodding

Once upon a time, I saw a poem, tattooed on a fellow's arm that has stayed with me.  It caught my eye because it was unexpected, but stayed with me because, well, it makes me cry a little.  By Samuel Beckett, it goes something like this:

Hand in hand with equal plod they go.  In the free hands - no.  Free empty hands.  Backs turned both bowed with equal plod they go.  The child hand raised to reach the holding hand.  Hold the old holding hand.  Hold and be held.  Plod on and never recede.  Slowly with never a pause clod on and never recede.  Backs turned.  Both bowed.  Joined by held holding hands.  Plod on as one.  One shade.  Another shade.