  Tell me, my friend; Across your faith (which, pardon me, I know To be sincere and honest; else, indeed, I had not spent this hour with you here;) Across your faith, then, does there never creep A haunting doubt it may not all be true? For me, although my life were spanned above With faith as honest as your own, if once On the horizon there had dawned a doubt No bigger than a pigmy’s little hand, Then heaven would be always overcast With possible untruth, and I should think The stars I saw were but poor will-o’-the-wisps Created in my brain, beyond which rolled The eternal darkness of a blank despair. Whereas now, living underneath a sky Continually clouded,—when a rift Shows me a tender heavenly blue beyond, I fancy then the darkness overhead May be a gathered mist of my poor brain, Beyond which rolls, immortal and unstained, |
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