How little we know of each other!
How lightly and loosely are known!
How seldom is brother with brother
The same that he is when alone;
Though relatives round a man gather,
Though cordial he seem with his friend,
Not even the child and its father
As spirit with spirit can blend.

The depths of a man are not sounded,
The heights of his thoughts are not seen,
The breadth of his feelings unbounded
Is veil'd by Society's screen;
We none of us heed what a greatness
Is hidden away in the Heart
That, mask'd in a well-bred sedateness,
Is playing its company part.

O Soul! that in solitude yearnest
For tenderer knowledge of friends,
The intimate, honest, and earnest,
Untainted by Self and its ends,--
Alas! for the lies of romances,
And stolid reality's truth;
Alas! for the generous fancies
That gladden'd a man in his youth!

Not here, where in spirit thou starvest,
Athirst for the flagons of love,
Not here -- is the happy heart-harvest
That gladdens the blessed above;
In heavenly meads we may reap it,--
But now the heart's garden is found
With scarcely one flower to keep it
Mapp'd out from the wilderness round!

Those 'spirits made perfect' in glory!
I long their companion to be,
That Love's ever musical story
Be sung by those reapers -- and me;
That Heart may discover its treasures
Unfearing, to dear ones above,
And all the full harvest of pleasures
Be reap'd by the Spirit of Love!