| Surmise |
The Track of a Human Mood |
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Not wish, nor fear, nor quite expectancy
Is that vague spirit Surmise,
That wanderer, that wonderer, whom we see
Within each other’s eyes;
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And yet not often. For she flits away,
Fitful as infant thought,
Visitant at a venture, hope at play,
Unversed in facts, untaught.
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In “the wide fields of possibility”
Surmise, conjecturing,
Makes little trials, incredulous, that flee
Abroad on random wing.
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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.
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