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 con-
found 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 an-
swer'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.