There is a line so fine one might despair
of tracing it in stress of circumstance:
dividing as it does what may appear
not poles apart—not fact and fallacy—
but truth and counterfeit so cunning-matched
that even an eye well practiced in the art
of severing what is true from what is not
may be deceived. And find, too late,
it has been tricked by skill of forgery.
But we are not left! Not left like this
to grope a way by the imperfect eye
which, at its best, can only choose between
what it perceives within its own estate
of right and wrong, in ceaseless shift and drift.
This is not where we stand at all! Not we
who are set (from that first final-word of light)
at the very heart, the very fount of light.
