I am made one with these indeed,
And give them all the love they need—
Such love as they would have of me:
But in my heart—ah, let it be!—
I think of it when none is nigh—
There is a love they shall not see;
For it I live—for it will die.
And oft-times, though I share their joys,
And seem to praise them with my voice,
Do I not celebrate my own,
Ay, down in some far inward zone
Of thoughts in which they have no part?
Do I not feel—ah, quite alone
With all the secret of my heart?
O when the shroud of night is spread
On these, as Death is on the dead,
So that no sight of them shall mar
The blessèd rapture of a star—
Then I draw forth those thoughts at will;
And like the stars those bright thoughts are;
And boundless seems the heart they fill:
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