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. )