CIX

More than mere instinct, straight against the scope
Of reason's counsel is the desperate hold
We lay on life, however dark and cold
Its cheerless prospect to the eye of hope.
One can but marvel at the slaves who grope
Their way through life, with miseries untold
Stinging them daily--wretches who might fold
Their griefs in death beneath some grassy slope.
Deep in the soul a latent trust must bide,
To keep us clinging to life's worthless prize,
While all its charms are shipwrecked at our side;
A faith in something hidden from the eyes
Of creeds and dogmas, as my love descries
Light in itself, and makes that light its guide.