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Poem	IF all the gentlest-hearted friends I know Concentred in one heart their gentleness, That still grew gentler till its pulse was less For life than pity,--I should yet be slow To bring my own heart nakedly below The palm of such a friend, that he should press Motive, condition, means, appliances, My false ideal joy and fickle woe, Out full to light and knowledge; I should fear Some plait between the brows, some rougher chime In the free voice. O angels, let your flood Of bitter scorn dash on me ! do ye hear What I say who hear calmly all the time This everlasting face to face with GOD ?
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