Appearances.

Of the terrible doubt of appearances, Of the uncertainty after all--that we may be deluded, That maybe reliance and hope are but speculations after all, That maybe identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only, Maybe the things I perceive--the animals, plants, men, hills, shining and flowing waters, The skies of day and night--colours, densities, forms--Maybe 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!) Maybe 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 anyhow, 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 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.