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; 10
 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.