Consolation
Though
he,
that
ever
kind
and
true,
Kept
stoutly
step
by
step
with
you,
Your
whole
long,
gusty
lifetime
through,
Be
gone
a
while
before,
Be
now
a
moment
gone
before,
Yet,
doubt
not,
soon
the
seasons
shall
restore
Your
friend
to
you.
He
has
but
turned
the
corner
—
still
He
pushes
on
with
right
good
will,
Through
mire
and
marsh,
by
heugh
and
hill,
That
self-same
arduous
way
—
That
self-same
upland,
hopeful
way,
That
you
and
he
through
many
a
doubtful
day
Attempted
still.
He
is
not
dead,
this
friend
—
not
dead,
But
in
the
path
we
mortals
tread
Got
some
few,
trifling
steps
ahead
And
nearer
to
the
end;
So
that
you
too,
once
past
the
bend,
Shall
meet
again,
as
face
to
face,
this
friend
You
fancy
dead.
Push
gaily
on,
strong
heart!
The
while
You
travel
forward
mile
by
mile,
He
loiters
with
a
backward
smile
Till
you
can
overtake,
And
strains
his
eyes
to
search
his
wake,
Or
whistling,
as
he
sees
you
through
the
brake,
Waits
on
a
stile.
