When God’s wrath-cloud is o’er me,Affrighting heart and mind;When days seem dark before me,And days seem black behind;Those friends who think they know me—Who deem their insight keen—They ne’er forget to show meThe man I might have been.
He’s rich and independent,Or rising fast to fame;His bright star is ascendant,The country knows his name;His houses and his gardensAre splendid to be seen;His fault the wise world pardons—The man I might have been.
His fame and fortune haunt me;His virtues wave me back;His name and prestige daunt meWhen I would take the track;But you, my friend true-hearted—God keep our friendship green!—You know how I was partedFrom all I might have been.
But what avails the ache ofRemorse or weak regret?We’ll battle for the sake ofThe men we might be yet!We’ll strive to keep in sight ofThe brave, the true, and clean,And triumph yet in spite ofThe men we might have been.