friend poem

in your arms was still delight
eighty years have passed, and more
let us pity those who are better off than we are
my sorrow, when she's here with me
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
i despise my friends more than you
she might have known it in the earlier spring
their beautiful hair
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
she must go back, she said