Sartor Resartus

Ah, God be merciful to him who sees

Thro’ ermined pomp and pageantry of kings,

Thro’ regal mien and beauty's witcheries

The poor, weak, shrivelled soul that crouches hid

Within the body's hold! Thrice-cursed is he

Whose soul sees souls of others face to face,

Who strips the outer man like vestments off

And views the naked heart in all its shame

And poverty; who still must rend the veil

Of motive, purpose, false humanity

And futile pretense! God! to walk this world

Doomed still to see what others fain would hide,

Reading men's thoughts as scholars read the page

Of some old language dead to all save them;

Seeing beneath the tender woman flesh,

The woman-grace, the pleading woman-eyes,

The grisly skeleton, the hollow ribs,

The eyeless sockets and the grinning jaw;

Reading for aye the sneer beneath the smile,

The lie that lurks behind the seeming truth;

To know that such, or haply worse, am I,

A living lie, false prophet to myself,

Clothed on with shimmering robes of fallacy

And vain deceit! Ah God, where is the truth?

Are all men false or lies the fault in me

Who, vulture-like, seize only on the taint,

And leave the pure? If haply thus it be

In pity take away the subtle sight

That pierces thought. Give back the old fond faith,

The young belief in all humanity;

Hide from my view the canker in the rose,

The taint in truth, the blight upon the bloom.

Far better‘ twere to drink the hemlock draught

And, happy, deem it nectar than to find

The drop of gall within the nectared cup.

Far better trust repaid with treachery

Than doubt confirmed! Ah, Thou all-seeing God

Who art the Truth, make me to see the truth;

Lift from my soul the shadow; in the room

Of doubt, send trust. Let me believe again;

Help me to see the highest in mankind!