Charles Bertram Johnson, "Old Friends" (1921)
Until it's ashen gray,
Or till the night grows late,
And talk the time away.
I cannot think to sleep,
And miss your golden speech,
My bed of dreams will keep--
You here within my reach.
I have so much to say,
The time is short at best,
A bit of toil and play,
And after that comes rest.
But you and I know now
The wisdom of the soul,
The years that seamed the brow
Have made our visions whole.
Sit here before my grate,
Until the ash is cold;
The things you say of late
Are fine as shriven gold.
Published in The Crisis, September 1921