You say, but with no touch of scorn,
⁠Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes
⁠Are tender over drowning flies,
You tell me, doubt is Devil-born.

I know not: one indeed I knew
⁠In many o subtle question versed,
⁠Who touched a jarring lyre at first,
But ever strove to make it true:

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds,
⁠At last he beat his music out.
⁠There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.

He fought his doubts and gather'd strength,
⁠He would not make his judgment blind,
⁠He faced the spectres of the mind
And laid them: thus he came at length