’t is to yourself I speak; you cannot know Him whom I call in speaking such a one, For you beneath the earth lie buried low, Which he, alone, as living walks upon. You may at times have heard him speak to you, And often wished perchance that you were he; And I must ever wish that it were true, For then you could hold fellowship with me: But now you hear us talk as strangers, met Above the room wherein you lie abed; A word perhaps loud spoken you may get, Or hear our feet when heavily they tread; But he who speaks, or he who’s spoken to, Must both remain as strangers still to you.
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