My other self, my bosom friend,
Thy faithful arm in mine enwinding,
Let us fare forth amid the trees,
Each in the other comfort finding.
For though our boyhood be so near,
Yet have we tasted grief and fear.

I feel upon my heart the weight
Of things unknown, the dread of living,
And thou, dear friend, canst strengthen me
By thy heart's wondrous gift of giving;
So, when life's strangeness frighteneth me,
In perfect trust I turn to thee.

Thou dost not scorn my foolish fear,
Nor e'er upbraid my dreamy thinking;
Thou dost not brand me with contempt
Because of all my frequent shrinking.
Thou art a tower of strength to me,
So let me walk awhile with thee.

Not all our hours are hours of dread:
We know the hours of splendid hoping;
When life's ongoing ways shine clear,
And vision takes the place of groping;
In those Great Hours I seek for thee
To walk amid the trees with me.

How hath God made our lives as one,
Knitting our fortunes up together
In comradeship that welcometh
The clearing or the lowering weather—
The joy or pain—heart answering heart!
Are we not friends till Death us part?

Then mount with me the rugged hill
And let our thoughts go seaward soaring,
Until in fancy's ear there sound
The chime of surf, the tempest's roaring;
And, by the sun-glint on the sea,
We trace the years that are to be.

My other self, why bound by death
The compass of our friendship's reaching?
Why doubt the promptings of our hearts,
Or falsify our spirits' teaching?
Must not the friends beneath the sod
Still walk amid the trees of God?

1903.

Literary Monthly, 1909

[Footnote 1: Died 1908.]