unlike are we, unlike, o princely heart!

unlike our uses and our destinies.

our ministering two angels look surprise

on one another, as they strike athwart

their wings in passing. thou, bethink thee, art

a guest for queens to social pageantries,

with gages from a hundred brighter eyes

than tears even can make mine, to play thy part

of chief musician. what hast thou to do

with looking from the lattice-lights at me,

a poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through

the dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?

the chrism is on thine head,—on mine, the dew,—

and death must dig the level where these agree.