 | Morning Glories : |  |
TO MY FRIEND.
He said he was my friend, both faithful, tried and true;If I could not believe, he would submit to any test;
That my exacting will might choose to put him to,
And yet, while all the air is rife with critics' tongue,
He seeks me not, although my weary heart with pain is wrung,
But must I yield to gathering doubts that rise,
And chide him for his coming, long delayed?
No, I can see the flash that lit his honest eyes,
When, with his swelling heart, he my poor friendship prayed.
The silver moon in cloudless sky shone clear
Above the leafless tree tops gray and bare,
A tiny brooklet rippled on its pebbly way,
It's music strange fell swiftly on my ear;
My hand with arduous grasp he took and swore
That evermore my cause he would defend,
And I in confidence might dwell secure.
In him I had a staunch and faithful friend;
What beauty did surround the quiet scene?
108
It's service done, it stands with tranquil mien,
A picture of the past, upon the little hill,
Its massive cogwheels running to decay,
O'er which the struggling water dashed along,
And hastened rushing forward on its way,
To join the greater current of the creek beyond.
The oaks are stiff and gnarled and gray and bare,
They skyward stretch their knotted waving boughs,
Through which the winds sing a discordant air,
As those bereft sing of their heart-felt woes;
But beauty gilds the scene and 'tis not drear,
For friend is plighting friendship unto friend,
O, grateful tryst, none in this world more dear,
Love oft begins where friendship finds its end.
| Morning Glories : | |