Classic Poem

As laurel leaves that cease not to be green,
From parching sun, nor yet from winter's threat,
As hardened oak that fear'th no sword so keen,
As flint for tool in twain that will not fret,
As fast as rock or pillar surely set, —
So fast am I to you, and aye have been,
Assuridly whom I can not forget,
For joy, for pain, for torment, nor for teen,
For loss, for gain, for frowning, nor for threat:
But ever one, — yea, both in calm and blast, —
Your faithful friend, and will be to my last.