Classic Poem

We meet with thousands in the world
Whose friendship we would never woo,
Whose sympathy we could not brook,
Their pity would but gall imbue,
Sometimes we meet with those to whom
Mysterious cords our spirits bind;
Friendship or love comes at the call
Of that sweet something undefined.

One look in which the souls have met
Can make a stranger's image prove
A changeless bliss within our breasts,
Embalmed in its own silent love.
A voice wakes in our hearts a chord
We ne'er again can hush to rest;
Its music like some mystic psalm
Comes whispering o'er life's cheerless waste.