Farewell, But Whenever You Welcome The Hourby Thomas Moore
Farewell, but whenever you welcome the hour
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcom'd it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain,
Of the few that had brighten'd his pathway of pain,
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw,
It's enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you.
And still on that evening when pleasure fills up,
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where 'ere my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night.
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me beaming, all o'er with your smiles.
Too, blest if it tells me that 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmur'd, "I wish he were here!"
Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy,
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd,
Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd.
You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang 'round it still.
It could have been a song of loyalty or pride or faith, a song of violence or history, cards or guns. I know no songs of dentistry. But above all, my life has been friendship and the loss of that - that which I valued and cherished most torn from my eyes and fingers, or turned from as I myself departed for perdition. Oh, I would like to think of Mattie and Hub happy, with joy and companionship, in the beauty of home and our old Southern skies and scents and songs. Mattie and Hub, amidst the old voices and dances, the familiar plain fare and delicacies. I remembered, every day, every night. I would like to think of Wyatt happy, raising a glass, though he never used to drink, to joy of family and friends. Not for him the old quiet Southern ways - a rover, restless, bringing honour and quiet courage and diligence, calm and reassurance by his solid quick-silver forward-moving reliable presence. Always an air of promise and adventure. I should like to think of him carrying that with him, creating home for his companions wherever he stopped over. Friends. I remembered, every day and every night. And I think, still and always, perhaps selfishly but surely wistfully, that perhaps they think of me, miss me, wish that I were there, sharing their companionship and conversation, laughter and movement, whatever bright hopes and plans they bear, their joy and wonder at the wild sky perhaps, their pleasure with the hospitality and lives they make for one another. I should like to believe they think of me. This has been my life - a wistful turning from that I loved. From friends and love, out of need to spare them my presence and pain. But I love, and I should like to think they know, and think of me. My life has been a Farewell, but with that wistful thought of being remembered and cherished nonetheless.
And my mama played this song on the piano, while we sang around it during the dark war long ago, thinking of how it would be sung by those so far away fighting for us.
Oh, I am strong. My eyes are cold, linear and uncompromising. I have killed and murdered. I have without a word endured daily what would have broken another. I am strong of mind and deft of hand. My diligence and memory and these are what you will see, should you look upon me favourably. But this - this song - is what I am, to myself. You will almost certainly not see it, despite this journal.Name: John H. Holliday, DDS.
Word Count: 434
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Nulli Virtute Secundus