In Praise of All Old Friends

Of all old friends, those we have of old are best; These the souls we travel with by preference, Theirs the spirits to whom we grant all deference. Their hopes are ours, ours their own; All victories shared, from like ambitions grown. Their years match step with ours, Show like passage of the hours, Silent steps of Time with which our lives are sown. They are moved as we are moved; Troubled and pleased by like turns of Fate, We pass through one another's gates Into rooms where loyalty is proved By ties of woven sympathies, By bonds no outsider sees. By bonds no outsider sees We tie ourselves to those who share The pithy heart of all unspoken cares, The shadows that would dim our days If no one shared our private ways, If none there were to let us know The fitness of the face we dare not show; The old friend nods and quietly stays Close by our side when mere acquaintance leaves, Unashamed to share our darkest inner night; Awaits with us the slow return of light. The old friend trusts and faithfully believes The tales we tell ourselves of joy or sorrow, Looks to yesterday and forward to tomorrow. Looking back to yesterday. forward to tomorrow, We walk with them through the wilderness of living Thankful for their presence and forgiving, As do we, the flaws that mark our human bounds Ignoring discordant notes that sound From time to time in all the narrative We build to define our days and give Form and substance to the constant rounds Of night to day and day to night, Our mutual progress towards Eternity, The approaching dark we do not wish to see Unless in company with the comforting light Of well-earned close companionship, Of sympathetic souls who join us on the trip. Seeking truths wherein the brave heart delves, We guide each other through dwindling days To face the world, to learn its ways, Its cruelties and its beauties shared Both the better for each time we dared To question this, our common Lot: To Be, awhile, and then to Not. So we share all we have got To fill our time, to weave our lives. Without old friends, the path is drear and long, Where goes but one to compose the song To tell of what we were, and how we strived To rescue Sense from Folly, all the rest; Of all friends, those we have of old are best.