The Word
My friend, my bonny friend, when we are old,
And hand in hand go tottering down the hill,
May we be rich in love’s refinèd gold,
May love’s gold coin be current with us still.
May love be sweeter for the vanished days,
And your most perfect beauty still as dear
As when your troubled singer stood at gaze
In the dear March of a most sacred year.
May what we are be all we might have been,
And that potential, perfect, O my friend,
And may there still be many sheafs to glean
In our love’s acre, comrade, till the end.
And may we find, when ended is the page,
Death but a tavern on our pilgrimage.
The following pages are advertisements of recent important poetry published by the Macmillan Company