Color (Cullen)/To My Friends
To My Friends
YOU feeble few that hold me somewhat moreThan all I am; base clay and spittle joinedTo shape an aimless whim substantial; coinedAmiss one idle hour, this heart, though poor,—O golden host I count upon the endsOf one bare hand, with fingers still to spare,—Is rich enough for this: to harbor thereIn opulence its frugal meed of friends.Let neither lose his faith, lest by such lossEach find insufferable his daily cross.And be not less immovable to me,Not less love-leal and staunch, than my heart is.In brief, these fine heroics come to this,My friends: if you are true, I needs must be.