I sometimes hold it half a sin To put in words the grief I feel For words, like nature, half reveal And half conceal the soul within. But, for the unquiet heart and brain A use measured language lie's The sad mechanic exercise Like dull narcotic's, numbing pain In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er Like coarsest clothes against the cold But large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more.

Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be?

And every dew-drop paints a bow.

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.

Faith is believing what we cannot prove.

Men at most differ as Heaven and Earth, but women, worst and best, as Heaven and Hell.

All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.