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may have been the pride in me for aught I know, or just a patronizing whim; But call it freak or fancy, or what not, I cannot hide that hungry face of him.

I keep a scant half-dozen words he said, And every now and then I lose his name; He may be living or he may be dead, But I must have him with me all the same.

I knew it, and I knew it all along,— And felt it once or twice, or thought I did; But only as a glad man feels a song That sounds around a stranger's coffin lid.

I knew it, and he knew it, I believe, But silence held us alien to the end; And I have now no magic to retrieve That year, to stop that hunger for a friend.