A wretched thing it were, to have our heart,
Like a thronged highway or a populous street,
Where every idle thought has leave to meet,
Pause, or pass on as in an open mart.
Or like some roadside pool, which no nice art
Has guarded that the cattle might not beat,
And foul it with a multitude of feet,
Till of the heavens it can give back no part.
But keep thou thine a holy solitude,
For He who would walk there would walk alone;
He who would drink there must be first endued
With single right to call that stream His own.
Keep thou thine heart, close-fastened, unrevealed,
A fenced garden and a fountain sealed.