So we, who ’ve supped the self-same cup,
    To-night must lay our friendship by;
  Your wrath has burned your judgment up,
    Hot breath has blown the ashes high. 
  You say that you are wronged—­ah, well,
    I count that friendship poor, at best
  A bauble, a mere bagatelle,
    That cannot stand so slight a test.

  I fain would still have been your friend,
    And talked and laughed and loved with you;
  But since it must, why, let it end;
    The false but dies, ’t is not the true. 
  So we are favored, you and I,
    Who only want the living truth. 
  It was not good to nurse the lie;
    ’T is well it died in harmless youth.

  I go from you to-night to sleep. 
    Why, what’s the odds? why should I grieve? 
  I have no fund of tears to weep
    For happenings that undeceive. 
  The days shall come, the days shall go
    Just as they came and went before. 
  The sun shall shine, the streams shall flow
    Though you and I are friends no more.

  And in the volume of my years,
    Where all my thoughts and acts shall be,
  The page whereon your name appears
    Shall be forever sealed to me. 
  Not that I hate you over-much,
    ’T is less of hate than love defied;
  Howe’er, our hands no more shall touch,
    We ’ll go our ways, the world is wide.

BEYOND THE YEARS

I

  Beyond the years the answer lies,
  Beyond where brood the grieving skies
      And Night drops tears. 
  Where Faith rod-chastened smiles to rise
      And doff its fears,
  And carping Sorrow pines and dies—­
      Beyond the years.

II

  Beyond the years the prayer for rest
  Shall beat no more within the breast;
      The darkness clears,
  And Morn perched on the mountain’s crest
      Her form uprears—­
  The day that is to come is best,
      Beyond the years.

III

  Beyond the years the soul shall find
  That endless peace for which it pined,
      For light appears,
  And to the eyes that still were blind
      With blood and tears,
  Their sight shall come all unconfined
      Beyond the years.

AFTER A VISIT

  I be’n down in ole Kentucky
    Fur a week er two, an’ say,
  ‘T wuz ez hard ez breakin’ oxen
    Fur to tear myse’f away. 
  Allus argerin’ ’bout fren’ship
    An’ yer hospitality—­
  Y’ ain’t no right to talk about it
    Tell you be’n down there to see.

  See jest how they give you welcome
    To the best that’s in the land,
  Feel the sort o’ grip they give you
    When they take you by the hand. 
  Hear ’em say, “We ’re glad to have you,
    Better stay a week er two;”
  An’ the way they treat you makes you
    Feel that ev’ry word is true.