THE FRIEND
Surely I dream. It is not possible thou hast really gone. It is not possible that I have lost thee.
From the shadows, I saw thee in his arms above the flower-strewn threshold. And all that night I stood alone under the stars, my hand still clasping the charred fragments of the torch burned for thy good fortune.
The distant rumor of the sea murmurs thy name; the silence of the forests is perfumed with thy memory. Each well-remembered gesture, each fair word, each glance of eyes which understood so well . . .
Thou hast but gone on a long journey, hast thou not? And life ebbs quickly, hand in hand with death . . . But thou wilt return. Before I know the dream is true, surely thou wilt return . . .
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