Deep in the holy Church are left
Some lonely places still,
Where quiet hearts and gentle saints
This ancient love fulfil.
And what have we in all the world
That we would call our own?
Our brightest transports are not ours
If they are felt alone.

Brother! I never kneel to pray
But I do pray for thee;
And thou I know dost never kneel
But thou dost pray for me.
These many days thine open heart
Mine eyes with joy have seen;
And often in its choicest crypts
My heart at prayer hath been.
By day and night there comes to me
A fresh and fragrant balm;
And well I know thine orisons
Have won for me that calm.
Thy cherished image lives with me,
And makes the day more bright;
And pleasant is the thought of thee.
Upon my bed by night.

They say we seek the hills and woods
For intellectual strife;
As if thy friend would rudely mar
Thy spirit's gentle life!
Ah! little do they deem how strong
The spell is o'er us thrown,—
The spell that takes two kindred hearts
And moulds them into one.
Yet still when we as humblest saints
Our feeble shinings give,
They shall take knowledge of us then
That we with Jesus live.