Hey Friend

O gentle friend, I trust thy days are fair, That all thou sought hath found its dwelling place; That peace attends thee softly unaware, And pride doth sit upon thy noble face. I hope thy soul finds rest in warm embrace. Whilst I, in restless nights, do toss and pine, And question fate that answers not my cry; Why fortune’s hand seems partial, not benign, Yet leaves me wandering ‘neath an empty sky. Still none returns to tell me reason why. They say when life presents the bitter fruit, One must from sourness fashion sweetness rare; But what of me, when sense itself is mute, And I know not what burdens I must bear? What draught is this that hangs upon the air? O Time, be still! Suspend thy hurried flight, Till I regain the strength I lack to stand; Dost thou not see me falter in thy sight, Or must I yield unto thy stern command? And fall, unheld, upon life’s shifting sand? Old friend, I write with longing in my breast, To know if thou dost live thy brightest days; If joy hath crowned thy labours with its crest, And light still guides thee through life’s winding ways. Speak true—dost thou yet thrive in fortune’s gaze?