IX.
So, be content! Should science cleave
The veil of things and show us peace,
‘Well :—but by wild imagining
Think not a golden robe to weave!
Such moulder. By fantastic ease
Ye come not well to anything.
Work and be sober: dotage thinks
By worth of words to slay the Sphinx.
x.
Things as they are—of these take hold,
Their heart of wonder throb to thine!
All things are matter and force and sense,
No two alone. All’s one: the gold
Of truth is no reward divine
Of faith, but wage of evidence.
The clod, the God, the spar, the star
Mete in thy measure, as they are
xi.
So lifts the agony of the world
From this mine head, that bowed awhile
Before the terror suddenly shown.
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