by William Henry Davies
God gave you to me, friend, as he gives
A child to his mother—so I hold you mine,
With such a sacred sense of ownership
As none but mothers feel.
I know you are not perfect—who is so?
But you are dear to me as Heaven is dear,
And I would have you ever near me, friend,
To make my life complete.
I love you for your laughter, and your tears,
For your brave spirit and your gentle ways,
For all the moods that make you what you are—
My friend, my chosen friend.