OF the terrible doubt of appearances,
Of the uncertainty after allthat we may be deluded,
That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,
That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,
May-be the things I perceivethe animals, plants, men, hills, shining and flowing
waters,
The skies of day and nightcolors, densities, formsMay-be these are, (as
doubtless
they
are,) only apparitions, and the real something has yet to be known;
(How often they dart out of themselves, as if to confound me and mock me!
How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught of them;)
May-be seeming to me what they are, (as doubtless they indeed but seem,) as from my
present
point of
viewAnd might prove, (as of course they would,) naught of what they appear, or
naught
any how,
from entirely changed points of view;
To me, these, and the like of these, are curiously answerd by my lovers, my
dear
friends;
When he whom I love travels with me, or sits a long while holding me by the hand,
When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason hold not, surround us
and
pervade us,
Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdomI am silentI require
nothing
further,
I cannot answer the question of appearances, or that of identity beyond the grave;
But I walk or sit indifferentI am satisfied,
He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.
Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances.
written byWalt Whitman
© Walt Whitman