To my gode friend
To my gode friend, who euer hopes to see
Some semblaunce that his workes are not forsook,
But rather considered for what they bee:
A help to manne whereuer he may look,
For loue of such is all thou wilt to haue.
This loue, this joye, in thy herte let it look
And content thyself that thee it doth saue.
Far more men are felled by hope of rewarde,
That giueth naught but ful the soul enslaue.
Woulde thy courte be a cold spectres graveyarde?
Thine aid no man use if thou art in hell,
Unable to shew us the high regarde
Which needed is treat ones fellowe well.
Knowest well that men such as I possess
No skill to tecche how euil to dispell;
Only may poets speke of thy success,
Of those who wrought that blessed work and loue
From which many haue returned from distress.
Let hearte of man herald thee and approue
Of what thy toil hath so long been made:
Reminder of the sacrifice aboue
Of which dayly are we euer more gladde
Though not alwey in thoght do it remaine.
Thy wreathe is such, my friend, and thou thus clade
Wilt be, though it not shyne with rusty staine,
But insteadde haue a nimbus round thy soule.
Thinkst thou these workes and eke thy straine
Is unremembred by we who more whole
Are made for hauing thine example seen?
Thy toil hath a solid form its toll,
A manor of men such as neuer been,
Who giue thee all their loue and more beside.
But only by thee art their mindes made keen
And strengthened arms upon thee haue relide
For guidance and supporte which else doth lacke
In they who gladly by thee would reside.
And thogh they stand while further bends thy backe,
Thou art the taller for the feats they claim.
Indeed this is no gleaming golden placke,
But trinkets would thy noble worke defaime
Rather than proue the worth of what thou wrought.
And while alone loue hath no great acclaime,
Think on the many for whom thou hast fought.
This host, this realm, thee euer will adore,
Though it be not the gentle word thou sought.
Thy loue of man hath emptied not its store,
And in tyme will thy garden of work grow
So that this joy throughout the lande spread more:
Thou art the source of many hearts fine glow.
This poem is based on Sir Thomas Wyatt's “Myne Owne John Poyntz” (though mine is about half as long as the original - I have maintained the iambic pentameter and ABABCBCDCDEDEFE.. rhyme scheme). I wanted to celebrate one of my best friends in the SCA who doesn't seem to get a lot of recognition for the work he does. Not that this is much recognition or celebration, but I hope it helps a little for those long stretches when we don't seem to get much out of it. There are always others who reap the benefits of one's work, even though they might not get the chance to thank the person explicitly. I wouldn't be in the SCA today if not for my good friend.