 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
110
MY FRIEND
Where is my friend to-day?
'Twas but a week ago
That he smiled in my face with his careless grace,
Loved me—but could not stay,—
What of his work, would I know?
Little as yet to say.
Nothing as yet to show!
'Twas but a week ago
That he smiled in my face with his careless grace,
Loved me—but could not stay,—
What of his work, would I know?
Little as yet to say.
Nothing as yet to show!
Where is the soul austere?
Nourished from springs remote,
Delicate, bright with a wizard light,
Shy as a maiden's fear,
Bold as a trumpet's note,
Sweet as the woodlark's throat?—
Only he is not here:
Nourished from springs remote,
Delicate, bright with a wizard light,
Shy as a maiden's fear,
Bold as a trumpet's note,
Sweet as the woodlark's throat?—
Only he is not here:
Ever some hint perplexed
Spoke in the quivering flame,
Some shadow of doom from the gates of gloom;
Often I cheered him, vexed,
Chiding his tardy fame;
Oh, when I see him next
Will he be still the same?
Spoke in the quivering flame,
Some shadow of doom from the gates of gloom;
Often I cheered him, vexed,
Chiding his tardy fame;
Oh, when I see him next
Will he be still the same?
111
Where are the restless feet?
Where are the starry eyes?
The caressing hand, and the brain that planned
Never to realise?
Oh, when we next shall meet,
How shall I dare to prize
What seemed so incomplete?
Where are the starry eyes?
The caressing hand, and the brain that planned
Never to realise?
Oh, when we next shall meet,
How shall I dare to prize
What seemed so incomplete?
Hark to the world to-day!
Yesterday some one said
That he masked with a smile a worldling's wile,
Self-centred, cold and gay;
Now that my friend is dead,
Hark to the prayers they pray!
See the false tears they shed!
Yesterday some one said
That he masked with a smile a worldling's wile,
Self-centred, cold and gay;
Now that my friend is dead,
Hark to the prayers they pray!
See the false tears they shed!
What lies here on the bed?
What is this pinched white thing,
With a stony eye and a lip that's dry?
See I drive from the stiffened head,
Yon fly with the buzzing wing;
Presently when I am fled,
He will return and bring—
What is this pinched white thing,
With a stony eye and a lip that's dry?
See I drive from the stiffened head,
Yon fly with the buzzing wing;
Presently when I am fled,
He will return and bring—
Nay, but I do him wrong,
Nothing of him I see,
Save the shrouding dusk, the chrysalis husk,
Oh but we loved it, we!
He is serene and strong,
Hath he a thought of me
Under the angels' song?
Nothing of him I see,
Save the shrouding dusk, the chrysalis husk,
Oh but we loved it, we!
He is serene and strong,
Hath he a thought of me
Under the angels' song?
112
If it be well with him,
If it be well, I say,
I will not try with a childish cry
To draw him thence away:
Only my day is dim,
Only I long for him,
Where is my friend to-day?
If it be well, I say,
I will not try with a childish cry
To draw him thence away:
Only my day is dim,
Only I long for him,
Where is my friend to-day?
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |