Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The Strange Companion
By Harold Monro
T
Passed me, then turned, and touched my arm.
And both of us looked fretfully,
And slowly we advanced together),
He said: “I bring you your inheritance.”
I doubted him, watched him, doubted him …
But, in a ceremonious way,
He said: “You are too grey:
Come, you must be merry for a day.”
Because the life in me was numb,
Cried: “I will come. I will come.”
We two jaunted on the street.
I had heard, often heard,
The shuffling of those feet of his,
The shuffle of his feet.
Such a wheezy jest
As a man may often hear—
Not the worst, not the best
That a man may hear.
Something that was true.
He said: “I have known this long, long while,
All there is to know of you.”
And the light of the lamp cut a strange smile
On his face, and we muttered along the street,
Good enough friends, on the usual beat.
We were always alone, he and I.
We never smiled with each other;
We were like brother and brother,
Dimly accustomed.
Can a man know
Why he must live, or where he should go?
And we roared with laughter, for want of a smile,
As every man in the world might do.
He who lies all night in bed
Is a fool, and midnight will crush his head.
One night, I hit him, and we parted;
But in a short space
We came back to each other melancholy-hearted,
Told our pain,
Swore we would not part again.
The body of some slain fool to cover,
And all the company clapped their hands;
So we spat in their faces,
And travelled away to other lands.
A strange companion so
Completely to his mind
With whom he everywhere may go.