Across your faith, then, does there never creep
A haunting doubt it may not all be true?
For me, although my life were spanned above
With faith as honest as your own, if once
On the horizon there had dawned a doubt
No bigger than a pigmy’s little hand,
Then heaven would be always overcast
With possible untruth, and I should think
The stars I saw were but poor will-o’-the-wisps
Created in my brain, beyond which rolled