The very faithful have begun to doubt;
But they molest not the calm eye that seeks
’Midst all this huddling silver little worth
The one thin piece that comes, pure gold; he waits.
O me, when the great deed e’en now has broke
Like a man’s hand the horizon’s level line,
So soon to fill the zenith with rich clouds;
Oh, in this narrow interspace, this marge,
This list and selvage of a glorious time,
To despair of the great and sell unto the mean!