Sufficient to beat back the waves of doubt, 
To pierce the void, and grasp the glorious, 
To find out Truth ?  Would God it might be so, 
Since here is nothing for the soul to love 
Or cling to beyond self.  My chamberlain 
Once showed me a pet slave, dwarf, savage, black, 
A vile, lewd creature, who would cast a staff 
Far wheeling through the air, and suddenly 
Break its swift course, and curving rapidly 
Come hard upon himself who threw.  Even so 
These vile deformities—our souls—cast forth 
Missiles of thought, and seek to reach some end 
With swift imagining—and end in self. 
What sage called God the image of man’s self 
He sees cast dimly on a bank of cloud, 
Thrice his own size ?  And I whose life has been 
[Cry without.] 
One bitter fight with nature and myself 
To find Him out, turn, terrible, to-night 
[Cry without.] 
To   see   myself—myself—myself.    [Cry without.] 
Hush !  Hark ! 
Methought I heard a cry.  The seamew wails 
 
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