FRIENDS.
133
Filling the wood, this subtile whisper then
My reverent listening heard:
"My love, the Oak,
Has died. Never before his name to men
Who, idly questioning, passed by, I spoke.
But thou,—thou lov'st like me; thy secret woke
My own. Thou know'st to a less lordly thing
The tendrils torn from oaks will never cling."
My reverent listening heard:
"My love, the Oak,
Has died. Never before his name to men
Who, idly questioning, passed by, I spoke.
But thou,—thou lov'st like me; thy secret woke
My own. Thou know'st to a less lordly thing
The tendrils torn from oaks will never cling."
FRIENDS.
TO
A. E. P.
E rode a day, from east, from west,To meet. A year had done its best,
By absence, and by loss of speech,
To put beyond the other's reach
Each heart and life; but, drawing nigh,
"Ah! it is you!" "Yes, it is I!"
We said; and love had been blasphemed
And slain in each had either deemed
Need of more words, or joy more plain
When eyes had looked in eyes again:
Ah friendship, stronger in thy might
Than time and space, as faith than sight!
Rich festival with thy red wine
My friend and I will keep in courts divine!
