UNCERTAINTY

Darkness surrounds us: seeking, we are lost

On Snowdon's wilds, amid Brigantian coves,

Or where the solitary shepherd roves

Along the plain of Sarum, by the ghost

Of Time and shadows of Tradition, crost;

And where the boatman of the Western Isles

Slackens his course — to mark those holy piles

Which yet survive on bleak Iona's coast.

Nor these, nor monuments of eldest name,

Nor Taliesin's unforgotten lays,

Nor characters of Greek or Roman fame,

To an unquestionable Source have led;

Enough — if eyes, that sought the fountain-head

In vain, upon the growing Rill may gaze.