THE ENDURING By James Whitcomb Riley

A misty memory—faint, far away And vague and dim as childhood's long-lost day— Forever haunts and holds me with a spell Of awe and wonder indefinable:— A shoeshop-wall.—An ancient temple, drawn Of crumbling granite, sagging portico And gray, forbidding gateway, grim as woe; And o'er the portal, cut in antique line, The words—cut likewise in this brain of mine— "Would'st have a friend?—Would'st know what friend is best? Have God thy friend: He passeth all the rest." Again the old shoemaker pounds and pounds Resentfully, as the loud laugh resounds And the coarse jest is bandied round the throng That smokes about the smoldering stove; and long, Tempestuous disputes arise, and then— Even as all like discords die again; The while a barefoot boy more gravely heeds The quaint old picture, and tiptoeing reads There in the rainy gloom the legend o'er The lowering portal of the old church door— "Would'st have a friend?—Would'st know what friend is best? Have God thy friend: He passeth all the rest." So older—older—older, year by year, The boy has grown, that now, an old man here, He seems a part of Allegory, where He stands before Life as the old print there— Still awed, and marvelling what light must be Hid by the door that bars Futurity;— Though ever clearer than with eyes of youth, He reads with his old eyes—and tears forsooth— "Would'st have a friend?—Would'st know what friend is best? Have God thy friend: He passeth all the rest."