A FRIEND
I choose no friend as one may choose a glove,To use, hold in his hand, and cast asideWhen it is old; forgetting that awhileIt served his purpose—neither more nor lessThan others of its kind have served, and will:Nor as we in a grave or idle hourTake up a book and say: “This shall beguileMy listlessness, or teach what I would know;”Then leave its crumpled pages on a shelfAnd go about the various ways of life.More would I take my friend as one who findsA cool spring in the desert, where his cup,Filled to the brim, leaves gratitude behind;And though he wander far knows if at lastHis feet turn back along that self-same roadThe same good welcome waits him at the end:Or as those faces we behold in dreams;Haunting us, waking, with their strange, deep eyesThat sting the soul into a thousand needsFiner and freer than it knew before.He is my friend who tempts me ever onTo high and higher; standing yet aboveWith hand reached back, as one who knows the pathHas stones a-many for the surest feet;Who weighs my weakness fairly with my strengthAnd sets a better higher than my best;Bidding me work when others say “Well done!”My friend is he who gives me larger faithIn men and life and hope of final good;Who by the alchemy of his fine breadthTransmutes my doubt and pain and wearinessInto peace and the pure gold of patience.The wind and stars, those old, old friends of mine,Are symbols of the human souls I love;Free as the wind is, high and pure and clearAs shine the stars—so would I have my friend.