The Unexpress'd

How dare one say it?

After the cycles, poems, singers, plays,

Vaunted Ionia's, India's — Homer, Shakspere — the long, long times’ thick dotted roads, areas,

The shining clusters and the Milky Ways of stars — Nature's pulses reap'd,

All retrospective passions, heroes, war, love, adoration,

All ages’ plummets dropt to their utmost depths,

All human lives, throats, wishes, brains — all experiences’ utterance;

After the countless songs, or long or short, all tongues, all lands,

Still something not yet told in poesy's voice or print — something lacking,

( Who knows? the best yet unexpress'd and lacking. )