Yet it is pitiful how friendships die, <br />Spite of our oaths eternal and high vows. <br />Some fall through blight of tongues wagged secretly, <br />Some through strifes loud in empty honour's house. <br />Some vanish with fame got too glorious, <br />And rapt to heaven in fiery chariots fly; <br />And some are drowned in sloth and the carouse <br />Of wedded joys and long love's tyranny. <br />O ye, who with high--hearted valliance <br />Deem truth eternal and youth's dreams divine, <br />Keep ye from love and fame and the mischance <br />Of other worship than the Muses nine. <br />So haply shall you tread life's latest strand <br />With a true brother still, and hand in hand.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-new-pilgrimage-sonnet-xxviii/
