“And have they really separated us?” He ask’d. And I, “What mean you?” “Are you then My friend or not?” he went on, mournfully. “What is a friend?” I ask’d. “What else,” he said, “But, in a world, where all misjudge one so, A soul to whom one dares to speak the truth?” “Ah, Haydn,” ask’d I, “must we speak all truth?” “Why not?” he said, “is ill less ill when hid?— Is not the penitent a sinner frank, The hypocrite a sinner not so frank?”— “But yet,” protested I, “the truth may harm.” “How so?” he ask’d. “If one show naked sin,— Who knows?—it then may shame men from the sin. And could the naked good accomplish more? Must not we Christians here confess our faults? Why should we not? Has wrong such lovely smiles And loving tones, that men should long for it? The harm is in the lie that masks the sin.” “And yet,” I said, “the young—the prejudiced”— “For their sake,” said he, “wisdom may be wise In what it screens from folly.—Yet you know The crime of Socrates,—‘corrupting youth’? The tale is old; this lying world wants liars, But what of that? The Christs lie not: they die. Our God is great. I deem Him great enough His truth to save without subverting ours. True sovereignty has truth: ’tis not a sham That holds high rank because we courteous men, Considerate men, allow it seeming rank. Who lies to save the truth, distrusts the truth, Disowns the soul, and does despite to God. Who strives to save his life thus, loses it, In evil trusting and the Evil One,— Salvation through the Devil, not through Christ!” XXVIII. Then while he sat there, with his flushing cheeks, Himself defending thus,—I, charm’d the while,— The door flew open, and behind it stood My father and the priest. Then had they said But one harsh word, it had not been so sad. But kind they were, too kind. Ah, sister dear, Have you not felt how much more pain it gives, This pain from kindness? Love is like the sun: It brightens life, but yet may parch it too. And wind may blow, and man may screen himself; And rain may fall, and he may shelter find; And frost may chill, and he may clothing wear; But what can ward off sun-stroke?—Love, Its first degree may bring fertility; Its next one barrenness. It lights; it blights. The flames of heaven, flash’d far and spent, turn smoke To glut the gloom of hell.