Friends . . . old friends . . . And what if it ends? Shall we dare to shirk What we live to learn? It has done its work, It has served its turn; And, forgive and forget Or hanker and fret, We can be no more As we were before. When it ends, it ends With friends. Friends . . . old friends . . . So it breaks, so it ends. There let it rest! It has fought and won, And is still the best That either has done. Each as he stands The work of its hands, Which shall be more As he was before? . . . What is it ends With friends? XLIV IF it should come to be, This proof of you and me, This type and sign Of hours that smiled and shone, And yet seemed dead and gone As old-world wine: Of Them Within the Gate Ask we no richer fate, No boon above, For girl child or for boy, My gift of life and joy, Your gift of love. XLV _To_ W. B. FROM the brake the Nightingale Sings exulting to the Rose; Though he sees her waxing pale In her passionate repose, While she triumphs waxing frail, Fading even while she glows; Though he knows How it goes— Knows of last year’s Nightingale Dead with last year’s Rose. Wise the enamoured Nightingale, Wise the well-belovèd Rose! Love and life shall still prevail, Nor the silence at the close Break the magic of the tale In the telling, though it shows— Who but knows How it goes!— Life a last year’s Nightingale, Love a last year’s Rose. XLVI MATRI DILECTISSIMÆ I. M. IN the waste hour Between to-day and yesterday We watched, while on my arm— Living flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone— Dabbled in sweat the sacred head Lay uncomplaining, still, contemptuous, strange: Till the dear face turned dead, And to a sound of lamentation The good, heroic soul with all its wealth— Its sixty years of love and sacrifice, Suffering and passionate faith—was reabsorbed In the inexorable Peace, And life was changed to us for evermore. Was nothing left of her but tears Like blood-drops from the heart? Nought save remorse For duty unfulfilled, justice undone, And charity ignored? Nothing but love, Forgiveness, reconcilement, where in truth, But for this passing Into the unimaginable abyss These things had never been? Nay, there were we, Her five strong sons! To her Death came—the great Deliverer came!— As equal comes to equal, throne to throne. She was a mother of men. The stars shine as of old. The unchanging River, Bent on his errand of immortal law, Works his appointed way To the immemorial sea. And the brave truth comes overwhelmingly home:— That she in us yet works and shines, Lives and fulfils herself, Unending as the river and the stars.