Only—but this is rare—
When a beloved hand is laid in ours,
When jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,
Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,
When our world-deafened ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed—
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost impulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.
—Arnold.
* * * * *
Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who offer you friendship,
Let me be the first, the truest, the nearest, the dearest.
—Longfellow.
* * * * *
The only danger in friendship is that it may end.
—Thoreau.
* * * * *
Of all the heavenly gifts that mortal men commend,
What trusty treasure in the world can countervail a friend?
Our health is soon decayed; goods, casual, light and vain;
Broke have we seen the force of power, and honor suffer stain.
In body's lust man doth resemble but base brute;
True virtue gets and keeps a friend, good guide of our pursuit.
Whose hearty zeal with ours accords in every case;
No term of time, no space of place, no storm can it deface.