Doubt struggles into Faith, and calls it life,
Hopes turn to gods, and fears take demon forms;
Man must be somewhere stayed in this strange strife;
He feels himself so weak against its storms.
Dim eyes he strains into futurity;
Weak arms, extending, gropes to find his road;
His fingers clutch at what seems Purity;
Thank Heaven! he sees not all their ghastly load.
And, whether all footpaths lead to the same place,
Or the weed hope blossoms into a flower;
Or whether all struggle in a phantom race,
And blow the bubbles of fame, love and power;
All this he knows not, somewhere he would rest,
By pleasure, or content, aye so ’twere best.