My flute! and flung away its echoes sleep;
  But as for me, my life-pulse beateth low;
And like a last-year’s leaf enshrouded deep
      Under the drifting snow,

Or like some vessel wrecked upon the sand
  Of torrid swamps, with all her merchandise,
And left to rot betwixt the sea and land,
      My helpless spirit lies.

Rueing, I think for what then was I made;
  What end appointed for—­what use designed? 
Now let me right this heart that was bewrayed—­
      Unveil these eyes gone blind.

My well-beloved friend, at noon to-day
  Over our cliffs a white mist lay unfurled,
So thick, one standing on their brink might say,
      Lo, here doth end the world.

A white abyss beneath, and nought beside;
  Yet, hark! a cropping sound not ten feet down: 
Soon I could trace some browsing lambs that hied
      Through rock-paths cleft and brown.

And here and there green tufts of grass peered through,
  Salt lavender, and sea thrift; then behold
The mist, subsiding ever, bared to view
      A beast of giant mould.

She seemed a great sea-monster lying content
  With all her cubs about her:  but deep—­deep—­
The subtle mist went floating; its descent
      Showed the world’s end was steep.

It shook, it melted, shaking more, till, lo,
  The sprawling monster was a rock; her brood
Were boulders, whereon sea-mews white as snow
      Sat watching for their food.

Then once again it sank, its day was done: 
  Part rolled away, part vanished utterly,
And glimmering softly under the white sun,
      Behold! a great white sea.

O that the mist which veileth my To-come
  Would so dissolve and yield unto mine eyes
A worthy path!  I’d count not wearisome
      Long toil, nor enterprise,

But strain to reach it; ay, with wrestlings stout
  And hopes that even in the dark will grow
(Like plants in dungeons, reaching feelers out),
      And ploddings wary and slow.

Is there such path already made to fit
  The measure of my foot?  It shall atone
For much, if I at length may light on it
      And know it for mine own.

But is there none? why, then, ’tis more than well: 
  And glad at heart myself will hew one out,
Let me he only sure; for, sooth to tell,
      The sorest dole is doubt—­

Doubt, a blank twilight of the heart, which mars
  All sweetest colors in its dimness same;
A soul-mist, through whose rifts familiar stare
      Beholding, we misname.

A ripple on the inner sea, which shakes
  Those images that on its breast reposed;
A fold upon a wind-swayed flag, that breaks
      The motto it disclosed.

O doubt!  O doubt!  I know my destiny;
  I feel thee fluttering bird-like in my breast;
I cannot loose, but I will sing to thee,
      And flatter thee to rest.