In a poem that explores the complex relationship between the soul and, well, the soul, the opening assertion is oddly reassuring. The soul, we are told, all by itself is a friend. Friendship is at once a powerful and a reassuring symbol. Unlike the haunted speculations of Christian theology that so often posit the soul as some internal entity on loan from the Creator God, the poem suggests that in its purest state a soul without context, a soul unto itself, is a friend, an ally. In fact, the poet suggests the soul is not merely a friend, but an imperial friend. That adjective suggests the soul in its purest state is monarchial, the king among the other lesser energies such as the intellect or the heart.

The first couplet reads like a maxim, a saying, which reassures the concerned, even anxious Christian that the soul that is too often abused and thus the reason for the person ending up in perdition is a friend, a powerful friend. Having a soul, the poem suggests, is akin to having a powerful friend in Court. The soul is not a burden we carry, not an obligation we must tend to, not a fragile and delicate instrument we must be sure not to break.