THE FRIENDS

For thee are chosen want and wayfaring In place of goods and ease thou dost desire, Nor shall thy days the meanest comfort bring. Hidden from thee, that lookest on the mire, Is every comeliness: thy very tears Wake not a weeping string in heaven’s quire; But are distilled from all thy suffered years As an ungracious and unwishéd rain, When every hill a robe of torrent wears: And not of anything art thou so fain As of dull Death. So art thou justified, For he shall bid thine angel sing again: Shall set for thee his pleasant portals wide, And thou that fleddest the rude breath of woe Yet scaped him not, shalt see beatified His direful children: smiling shalt thou go And say, “Want, am I welcome, friend? And lo, Sorrow my sister, Plague mine housefellow.” 1917.