<h2>III</h2>
<p>Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!<br/>
Unlike our uses and our destinies.<br/>
Our ministering two angels look surprise<br/>
On one another, as they strike athwart<br/>
Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art<br/>
A guest for queens to social pageantries,<br/>
With gages from a hundred brighter eyes<br/>
Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part<br/>
Of chief musician. What hast thou to do<br/>
With looking from the lattice-lights at me,<br/>
A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through<br/>
The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?<br/>
The chrism is on thine head,—on mine, the dew,—<br/>
And Death must dig the level where these agree.</p>
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