Famous Friendship Poems

I hold him dearest who aspires
To kindle in my heart the fires
Of best desires.

I hold the man of all most dear
Who, when I stumble, draweth near
With word of cheer.

I hold that man of best intents
Who giveth me not paltry pence,
But confidence.

For there are men who quick caress
Win give to laurel-crowned success—
To nothing less.

But, oh, how dearer far are they
Who help me on the upward way
When skies are gray.

If so it be that I attain
The mountain peak, and leave the plain
And paths of pain,

My prayers shall first be upward sent
For those dear friends of mine who lent
Encouragement.

I do not say new friends are not considerate and true,
Or that their smiles ain't genuine, but still I'm tellin' you
That when a feller's heart is crushed and achin' with the pain,
And teardrops come a-splashin' down his cheeks like summer rain,
Becoz his grief an' loneliness are more than he can bear,
Somehow it's only old friends, then, that really seem to care.
The friends who've stuck through thick an' thin, who've known you, good an' bad,
Your faults an' virtues, an' have seen the struggles you have had,
When they come to you gentle-like an' take your hand an' say:
'Cheer up! we're with you still,' it counts, for that's the old friends' way.

The new friends may be fond of you for what you are today;
They've only known you rich, perhaps, an' only seen you gay;
You can't tell what's attracted them; your station may appeal;
Perhaps they smile on you because you're doin' something real;
But old friends who have seen you fail, an' also seen you win,
Who've loved you either up or down, stuck to you, thick or thin,
Who knew you as a budding youth, an' watched you start to climb,
Through weal an' woe, still friends of yours an' constant all the time,
When trouble comes an' things go wrong, I don't care what you say,
They are the friends you'll turn to, for you want the old friends' way.

The new friends may be richer, an' more stylish, too, but when
Your heart is achin' an' you think your sun won't shine again,
It's not the riches of new friends you want, it's not their style,
It's not the airs of grandeur then, it's just the old friend's smile,
The old hand that has helped before, stretched out once more to you,
The old words ringin' in your ears, so sweet an', Oh, so true!
The tenderness of folks who know just what your sorrow means,
These are the things on which, somehow, your spirit always leans.
When grief is poundin' at your breast — the new friends disappear
An' to the old ones tried an' true, you turn for aid an' cheer.

There are two kinds of people on earth to-day;
     Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.

Not the sinner and saint, for it’s well understood,
     The good are half bad and the bad are half good.

Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man’s wealth,
     You must first know the state of his conscience and health.

Not the humble and proud, for in life’s little span,
     Who puts on vain airs is not counted a man.

Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years
     Bring each man his laughter and each man his tears.

No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean,
     Are the people who lift and the people who lean.

Wherever you go, you will find the earth’s masses
     Are always divided in just these two classes.

And, oddly enough, you will find, too, I ween,
     There’s only one lifter to twenty who lean.

In which class are you? Are you easing the load
     Of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?

Or are you a leaner, who lets others share
     Your portion of labor, and worry and care?

Let me come in where you are weeping, friend,
And let me take your hand.
I, who have known a sorrow such as yours,
Can understand.

Let me come in - I would be very still
Beside you in your grief;
I would not bid you cease your weeping, friend,
Tears can bring relief.

Let me come in - I would only breathe a prayer,
And hold your hand,
For I have known a sorrow such as yours,
And understand.

Within this false world we may count ourselves blest,
    If we have but one friend who is faithful and true;
And so in your friendship contented I'll rest,
    And believe I have found that one blessing in you.

My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.

Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.

No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.

So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.

After the fierce midsummer all ablaze
Has burned itself to ashes, and expires
In the intensity of its own fires,
There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin days
Crowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze.
So after Love has led us, till he tires
Of his own throes, and torments, and desires,
Comes large-eyed Friendship: with a restful gaze.
He beckons us to follow, and across
Cool verdant vales we wander free from care.
Is it a touch of frost lies in the air?
Why are we haunted with a sense of loss?
We do not wish the pain back, or the heat;
And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.

I never came to you, my friend,
and went away without
some new enrichment of the heart;
More faith and less of doubt,
more courage in the days ahead.
And often in great need coming to you,
I went away comforted indeed.
How can I find the shining word,
the glowing phrase that tells all that
your love has meant to me,
all that your friendship spells?
There is no word, no phrase for
you on whom I so depend.
All I can say to you is this,
God bless you precious friend.