A Fancied Loss
IF some day in your heart is born the thought
That one held dear is careless of the gift
Of tenderness, so fully, freely given,
I pray you, friend, to strangle it at birth.
There are no losses half so real to us,
As losses which are not—have never been—
A friendship gone! we say, and drop a tear
For wasted faith, and love, and loyalty.
When, if we did but know the simple truth,
The gladness in these foolish hearts of ours—
The gladness and the full content would leave
No room for sadness, and no place for doubt.