14 February 2015
Here is a poem I stumbled across in the bowels of my computer. It is by John Masefield (1878-1967) and was sent to us many years ago by a holy man, now dead. I had forgotten how moving it is:
My friend, my bonny friend, when we are old,
And hand in hand go tottering down the hill,
May we be rich in love’s refined gold,
May love’s gold coin be current with us still.
May what we are be all we might have been,
And that potential, perfect, oh my friend,
And may there still be many sheafs to glean
In our love’s acre, darling, till the end.
And may we find, when ended is the page
Death but a tavern on our pilgrimage.