How dare one say it?
After the cycles, poems, singers, plays,
Vaunted Ionia's, India's--Homer, Shakspeare--the long, long times'
thick dotted roads, areas,
The shining clusters and the Milky Ways of stars--Nature's pulses reap'd,
All retrospective passions, heroes, war, love, adoration,
All ages' plummets dropt to their utmost depths,
All human lives, throats, wishes, brains--all experiences' utterance;
After the countless songs, or long or short, all tongues, all lands,
Still something not yet told in poesy's voice or print--something lacking,
(Who knows? the best yet unexpress'd and lacking.)
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