The Lost Friend
The people take the thing of course,They marvel not to seeThis strange, unnatural divorceBetwixt delight and me.
I know the face of sorrow, and I knowHer voice with all its varied cadences;Which way she turns and treads; how at her easeThings fit her dreary largess to bestow.
Where sorrow long abides, some be that growTo hold her dear, but I am not of these;Joy is my friend, not sorrow; by strange seas,In some far land we wandered, long ago.
O faith, long tried, that knows no faltering!O vanished treasure of her hands and face!--Beloved--to whose memory I cling,Unmoved within my heart she holds her place.
And never shall I hail that other "friend,"Who yet shall dog my footsteps to the end.
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