friend poem

soft as the bed in the earth
in mournful numbers
eighty years have passed, and more
now for a brisk and cheerful fight
it tells of good old times
be not false
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
we break the glass whose sacred wine
in september
she said
days endeared to every muse
out of the window a sea of green trees
leave the lovely words unsaid
shades of night were falling fast