Their height in heaven comforts not,
Their glory nought to me;
’Twas best imperfect, as it was;
I’m finite, I can’t see.

The house of supposition,
The glimmering frontier
That skirts the acres of perhaps,
To me shows insecure.

The wealth I had contented me;
If ’twas a meaner size,
Then I had counted it until
It pleased my narrow eyes

Better than larger values,
However true their show;
This timid life of evidence
Keeps pleading, “I don’t know.”