XV.

Their height in heaven comforts not, Their glory nought to me; ‘ T was best imperfect, as it was; I‘ m finite, I can n't see.

The house of supposition, The glimmering frontier That skirts the acres of perhaps, To me shows insecure.

The wealth I had contented me; If‘ t was a meaner size, Then I had counted it until It pleased my narrow eyes

Better than larger values, However true their show; This timid life of evidence Keeps pleading, “I do n't know.”