OF the terrible question of appearances,

Of the doubts, the uncertainties after all,

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 con-
found me and mock me!

How often I think neither I know, nor any man
knows, aught of them;)

May-be they only seem 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
answered 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 wis-
dom—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.