Classic Poem

Tho 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 season shall restore
Your friend to you.

He has but turned a corner; still
He pushes on with right good will,
Through mire and marsh, by heuch and hill
The 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 gayly 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.