To lose one's faith -- surpass
The loss of an Estate --
Because Estates can be
Replenished -- faith cannot --
Inherited with Life --
Belief -- but once -- can be --
Annihilate a single clause --
And Being's -- Beggary --
My Faith is larger than the Hills --
So when the Hills decay --
My Faith must take the Purple Wheel
To show the Sun the way --
'Tis first He steps upon the Vane --
And then -- upon the Hill --
And then abroad the World He go
To do His Golden Will --
And if His Yellow feet should miss --
The Bird would not arise --
The Flowers would slumber on their Stems --
No Bells have Paradise --
How dare I, therefore, stint a faith
On which so vast depends --
Lest Firmament should fail for me --
The Rivet in the Bands
Peace is a fiction of our Faith --
The Bells a Winter Night
Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound
That never did alight.
To mend each tattered Faith
There is a needle fair
Though no appearance indicate --
'Tis threaded in the Air --
And though it do not wear
As if it never Tore
'Tis very comfortable indeed
And spacious as before --
Faith -- is the Pierless Bridge
Supporting what We see
Unto the Scene that We do not --
Too slender for the eye
It bears the Soul as bold
As it were rocked in Steel
With Arms of Steel at either side --
It joins -- behind the Veil
To what, could We presume
The Bridge would cease to be
To Our far, vacillating Feet
A first Necessity.
"Faith" is a fine invention
When Gentlemen can see --
But Microscopes are prudent
In an Emergency.
So much of Heaven has gone from Earth
That there must be a Heaven
If only to enclose the Saints
To Affidavit given.
The Missionary to the Mole
Must prove there is a Sky
Location doubtless he would plead
But what excuse have I?
Too much of Proof affronts Belief
The Turtle will not try
Unless you leave him -- then return
And he has hauled away.
The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods, against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches tost;
And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and water o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear,—
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.