SURMISE THE TRACK OF A HUMAN MOOD

1910

Not wish, nor fear, nor quite expectancy

Is that vague spirit Surmise,

That wanderer, that wonderer, whom we see

Within each other's eyes;

And yet not often. For she flits away,

Fitful as infant thought,

Visitant at a venture, hope at play,

Unversed in facts, untaught.

In "the wide fields of possibility"
Surmise, conjecturing,
Makes little trials, incredulous, that flee
Abroad on random wing.

One day this inarticulate shall find speech,
This hoverer seize our breath.

Surmise shall close with man -- with all, with each --
In her own sovereign hour, the moments of our death.

End of title

Links

External resources

Toggle Dropdown