Agnosticism is the everlasting perhaps.

There is no expeditious road To pack and label men for God, And save them by the barrel-load. Some may perchance, with strange surprise, Have blundered into Paradise.

Little Jesus, was Thou shy Once, and just so small as I? And what did it feel like to be Out of Heaven, and just like me?

Deep in my heart subsides the infrequent word, And there dies slowly throbbing like a wounded bird.

The innocent moon, that nothing does but shine,Moves all the labouring surges of the world.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in others pain And perish in our own.

The desolation and terror of, for the first time, realizing that the mother can lose you, or you her, and your own abysmal loneliness and helplessness without her.