Their height in heaven comforts not,
Their glory nought to me;
‘ T was best imperfect, as it was;
I‘ m finite, I can n't see.
The house of supposition,
The glimmering frontier
That 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 until
It pleased my narrow eyes
Better than larger values,
However true their show;
This timid life of evidence
Keeps pleading, “I do n't know.”