Tuesday, June 14


So let the many go their way, and let the throng pass by; The crowd is but a fickle thing which hears not when you sigh. The multitude is quick to run in search of favorites news, And all that man can hold for grief is just a friend or two.
When winds of failure start to blow, you'll find the throng has gone- The splendor of a brighter flame will always lure them on; But with the ashes of your dreams, and all you hoped to do, You'll find that all you really need is just a friend or two.
You cannot know the multitude, however hard you try: It cannot sit about your hearth; it cannot hear your sigh; It cannot read the heart of you, or know the hurts you bear; Its cheers are all for happy men and not for those in care.
So let the throng go on its way and let the crowd depart; But one or two will keep the faith when you are sick at heart; And rich you'll be, and comforted, when gray skies hide the blue, If you can turn and share your grief with just a friend or two.
Edgar A. Guest

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