To My Friend.
When from the turmoil of the busy mart
I chanced to turn and cross your open door
My spirit, weary of the load it bore,
All uninvited, slipped into your heart
And found its home. No more I trod with start
And tremble at my loneliness, no more
Each face the alien look of Ishmael wore,
And I among my fellows stood apart ;
There is a cup for every acorn grown,
There is an echo somewhere for each sound,
Methinks God made his souls in this design
To take the sting from that dread word “alone,”
No acorn fits its cup in perfect round
No echo answers sound, as thy soul mine.
Agnes L. Storrie. Poems, J. W. Kettlewell, Sydney, 1909, page 250