OF the terrible doubt of appearances,
Of the uncertainty after all-that we may be deluded,
That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,
That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,
May-be the things I perceive-the animals, plants, men, hills,
shining and flowing waters,
The skies of day and night-colors, densities, forms-May-be these
are, (as doubtless they are,) only apparitions, and the real
something has yet to be known;
(How often they dart out of themselves, as if to confound me and mock
me!
How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught of them
May-be seeming to me what they are, (as doubtless they indeed but
seem,) as from my present point of view-And might prove, (as
of course they would,) naught of what they appear, or naught
any how, from entirely changed points of view;
-To me, these, and the like of these, are curiously answer'd by my
lovers, my dear friends;
When he whom I love travels with me, or sits a long while holding me
by the hand,
When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason
hold not, surround us and pervade us,
Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom-I am silent-I
require nothing further,
I cannot answer the question of appearances, or that of identity
beyond the grave;
But I walk or sit indifferent-I am satisfied,
He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.
