Uncertainty

Darkness surrounds us: seeking, we are lost On Snowdon's wilds, amid Brigantian coves, Or where the solitary shepherd roves Along the plain of Sarum, by the ghost Of Time and shadows of Tradition, crost;

And where the boatman of the Western Isles Slackens his course--to mark those holy piles Which yet survive on bleak Iona's coast. Nor these, nor monuments of eldest name, Nor Taliesin's unforgotten lays, Nor characters of Greek or Roman fame, To an unquestionable Source have led; Enough--if eyes, that sought the fountain-head In vain, upon the growing Rill may gaze.