Dear Friend Of My Youth By Watie W. Swanzy

Dear friend of my youth, oft I think of thee,
Although by time we are sundered afar;
Yet through the hard, hard fate of years, I see
Thee, by the door which has been left ajar,
Surrounded still with thy sweet babes; content,
Betimes, with charms of home and all it brings
Of love tokens. Still to thee was oft lent
The harp of song, and, when across its strings
Thy hand didst sweep, ’twas an inspired lay;
And thy mild blue eyes would grow bright with hope
When at some future time thou wouldst portray
The thoughts that thronged upon thee, when full scope
To thy powers could be indulged. Has it been,
Dear Friend? Didst thou the wreath of laurel win?