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.