The Corridor

 It may have been the pride in me for aught 
I know, or just a patronizing whim; 
But call it freak of fancy, or what not, 
I cannot hide the hungry face of him.


I keep a scant half-dozen words he said, 
And every now and then I lose his name; 
He may be living or he may be dead, 
But I must have him with me all the same.


I knew it and I knew it all along,-- 
And felt it once or twice, or thought I did; 
But only as a glad man feels a song 
That sounds around a stranger's coffin lid.


I knew it, and he knew it, I believe, 
But silence held us alien to the end; 
And I have now no magic to retrieve 
That year, to stop that hunger for a friend.

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