Nevertheless, kind spirit, susceptible and guileless, Meek uncherished dove, in a carrion flock of fowls, Sensitive mimosa, shrinking from the winds that help to root the fir, Fragile nautilus, shipwrecked in the gale whereat the conch is glad, Thy sharp peculiar grief is uncomforted by hope of compensation, For it is a delicate and spiritual wound, which the probe of pity bruiseth: Yet hear how many thoughts extenuate its pain; Even while a kindred heart can sorrow for its presence. For the sting of neglect is in this,--that such as we are all, forget us, That men and women, kith and kin, so lightly heed of other: Sympathy is lacking from the guilty such as we, even where angels minister, And souls of fine accord must prize a fellow-sinner's love; For the worst love those who love them, and the best claim heart for heart, And it is a holy thirst to long for love's requital: Hard it will be, hard and sad, to love and be unloved; And many a thorn is thrust into the side of him that is forgotten. The oppressive silence of reserve, the frost of failing friendship, Affection blighted by repulse, or chilled by shallow courtesy, The unaided struggle, the unconsidered grief, the unesteemed self-sacrifice, The gift, dear evidence of kindness, long due, but never offered, The glance estranged, the letter flung aside, the greeting ill received, The services of unobtrusive care unthanked, perchance unheeded, These things, which hard men mock at, rend the feelings of the tender, For the delicate tissue of a spiritual mind is torn by those sharp barbs; The coldness of a trusted friend, a plenitude ending in vacuity, Is as if the stable world had burst a hollow bubble.