In utter loneliness, the soul

Is born, and lives, and dies,

And onward thence,

Goes where we know not,

Here on earth, the mind

Perhaps is intimate, the body lives

Close with another body

All through all it's life,

But the soul apart goes on it's way

As silent to the grave

As afterwards.

And no man knows another's soul,

Nor ever should.

It is the last retreat, the last reserve,

Wherein are garnered all the thoughts

Men dare not speak.

And only rarely do we glimpse

A soul, peering from it's loneliness

Through, all-revealing eyes.