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.