The Lost Friend

The people take the thing of course,    They marvel not to

This strange, unnatural divorce    Betwixt delight and me.

I know the face of sorrow, and I

Her voice with all its varied cadences;

Which way she turns and treads; how at her

Things fit her dreary largess to bestow.

Where sorrow long abides, some be that

To 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.