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?