John Masefield

Being Her Friend

Being her friend, I do not care, not I,
    How gods or men may wrong me, beat me down;
Her word’s sufficient star to travel by,
    I count her quiet praise sufficient crown.

Being her friend, I do not covet gold,
    Save for a royal gift to give her pleasure;
To sit with her, and have her hand to hold,
    Is wealth, I think, surpassing minted treasure.

Being her friend, I only covet art,
    A white pure flame to search me as I trace
In crooked letters from a throbbing heart
    The hymn to beauty written on her face.