XV
Their height in heaven comforts not,Their glory nought to me;‘T was best imperfect, as it was;I ‘m finite, I can’t see.
The house of supposition,The glimmering frontierThat skirts the acres of perhaps,To me shows insecure.
The wealth I had contented me;If ‘t was a meaner size,Then I had counted it untilIt pleased my narrow eyes
Better than larger values,However true their show;This timid life of evidenceKeeps pleading, “I don’t know.”