An Apprehension

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 bear calmly all the time
This everlasting face-to-face with GOD?