Truth that escapes prose,—nay, puts poetry to shame.
I read the note, I strike the key, I bid record
The instrument,—thanks greet the veritable word!
And not in vain I urge: "O dead and gone away,
Assist who struggles yet, thy strength become my stay,
Thy record serve as well to register—I felt
And knew thus much of truth! With me, must knowledge melt
Into surmise and doubt and disbelief, unless
Thy music reassure—I gave no idle guess,
But gained a certitude, I yet may hardly keep!