Of men; and I clung close unto his strength.
Our friendship might have ripened slow like wine,
To be a cheer and comfort to our age,
Mellow with wisdom, tranquil, tolerant;
Yet is it but a shadow. Happiness
Is not the nurture of a steadfast soul;
But sorrow binds us with the bonds of love.
Love is a suffering, a sacrifice;
A hand put out toward all human pain;
A fellowship, through danger and the dark: