Ode to a Friend
No hand of friend,
can touch you.
After all, have you not grown better?
Has your third eye opened,
and you see better and beyond,
us, your mortal friends?
and what of the old smiles?
Do YOU look at ME,
with ill contempt?
Your built arms,
could carry a thousand weights,
more than me.
shines your hair,
or so it did,
the last time we spoke.
I miss you,
Will you come back?
Maybe we could talk,
of idle things,
Maybe you would sing for us,
your melody to last for years.
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Comments about this poem (Ode to a Friend by Nicholas Peter )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(18 November 1939)
Edgar Albert Guest
(20 August 1881 - 5 August 1959)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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