Though he, that ever kind and true, Kept stoutly step by step with you, Your whole long, gusty lifetime through, Be gone a while before, Be now a moment gone before, Yet, doubt not, soon the seasons shall restore Your friend to you. He has but turned the corner — still He pushes on with right good will, Through mire and marsh, by heugh and hill, That self-same arduous way — That self-same upland, hopeful way, That you and he through many a doubtful day Attempted still. He is not dead, this friend — not dead, But in the path we mortals tread Got some few, trifling steps ahead And nearer to the end; So that you too, once past the bend, Shall meet again, as face to face, this friend You fancy dead. Push gaily on, strong heart! The while You travel forward mile by mile, He loiters with a backward smile Till you can overtake, And strains his eyes to search his wake, Or whistling, as he sees you through the brake, Waits on a stile.