Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances

Of the terrible doubt of appearances,

Of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,

That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,

That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,

May-be the things I perceive, the animals, plants, men, hills, shining and flowing waters,

The skies of day and night, colors, densities, forms, may-be 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,)

May-be 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 ) nought of what they appear, or nought anyhow, from entirely changed points of view;

To me these and the like of these are curiously answer'd 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.