Chapter 8 No.8

Though we may brood with keenest subtlety,

Sending our reason forth, like Noah's dove,

To know why we are here to die, hate, love,

With Hope to lead and help our eyes to see

Through labour daily in dim mystery,

Like those who in dense theatre and hall,

When fire breaks out or weight-strained rafters fall,

Towards some egress struggle doubtfully;

Though we through silent midnight may address

The mind to many a speculative page,

Yearning to solve our wrongs and wretchedness,

Yet duty and wise passiveness are won,-

(So it hath been and is from age to age)-

Though we be blind, by doubting not the sun.