Poems (Piatt)/Volume 1/A Doubt

by Sarah Piatt

A DOUBT.

It is subtle, and weary, and wide;
It measures the world at my side;
 It touches the stars and the sun;
It creeps with the dew to my feet;
 It broods on the blossoms, and none,
Because of its brooding, are sweet;
It slides as a snake in the grass,
Whenever, wherever I pass.

It is blown to the South with the bird;
At the North, through the snow, it is heard;
 With the moon from the chasms of night
It rises, forlorn and afraid;
 If I turn to the left or the right
I can not forget or evade;
When it shakes at my sleep as a dream,
If I shudder, it stifles my scream.

It smiles from the cradle; it lies
On the dust of the grave, and it cries
 In the winds and the waters; it slips
In the flush of the leaf to the ground;
 It troubles the kiss at my lips;
It lends to my laughter a sound;
It makes of the picture but paint;
It unhaloes the brow of the saint.

The ermine and crown of the king,
The sword of the soldier, the ring
 Of the bride, and the robe of the priest,
The gods in their prisons of stone,
 The angels that sang in the East—
Yea, the cross of my Lord, it has known;
And wings there are none that can fly
From its shadow with me, till I die!