I drew him then unto my knee, my friend who
was dead,
And I set my live lips over his, and my heart
by his head.

I thought of an unrippled love and a passion
unsaid,
And the years he was living by me, my friend
who was dead;

And the white morning ways that we went,
and how oft we had fed
And drunk with the sunset for lamp--my friend
who was dead;

Now never the draught at my lips would thrill
to my head--
For the last vintage ebbed in my heart; my
friend he was dead.

Then I spake unto God in my grief: My wine
and my bread
And my staff Thou hast taken from me--my
friend who is dead.

Are the heavens yet friendless to Thee, and
lone to Thy head,
That Thy desolate heart must have need of my
friend who is dead?