Classic Poem

I

Some ten or twelve old friends of yours and mine,
— If we spoke truly, are not friends at all.
They never were. That accident divine,
— A friendship, not so often may befall!

But as the dull years pass with dragging feet
— Within them waxes, in us wanes, esteem;
For weakly, and half conscious of deceit,
— We gave them cause an equal love to dream.

Could we have told some fool with haggard face
— Who bared his soul, so sure we'd understand,
His little tragedy was commonplace? . . .
— We lied. We stretched to him a brother's hand;

He loved us for it, and mere ruth has kept
Our jaws from yawning while he drooled and wept.

II

The valor cold to be ourselves we lack;
— And so from strands of kindness misconstrued
And lenient moments, careless threads and slack,
— We're meshed within a web of habitude.

And often these are worthier men than we;
— But that itself, in time, becomes offense;
We're burdened with this damned nobility
— That's forced on us, which we must recompense.

We loathe ourselves for being insincere,
— And lavish generous deeds to hide the fact:
For who could wound these hearts? Thus we appear
— Thrice loyal friends in word and look and act!

And golden lies with which we save them pain
But serve to make their true regard more fain.

III

Should chance strike out of me some human heat,
— Leap not at that and think to grasp my soul!
I flee new bonds. My self must still retreat
— Down devious ways to keep me free and whole.

Give me your mind, and I will give you mine.
— Then should it change no heart will bleed or burn.
Give me your wits. I want no heart of thine.
— You'll ask too much of life-blood in return.

There was a golden lad in years long gone. . . .
— We twain together left the ways of men
And roamed the starry heights, the fields of dawn,
— In youth and gladness. This comes not again.

Give me your mirth. It bores me when you weep.
My loves you cannot touch. They're buried deep.