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,