I do not doubt there is more in myself than I have
supposed—and more in all men and women—
and more in my poems than I have supposed;
I do not doubt that temporary affairs keep on and on,
millions of years;
I do not doubt interiors have their interiors, and
exteriors have their exteriors—and that the
eye-sight has another eye-sight, and the hearing
another hearing, and the voice another voice;
I do not doubt that the passionately-wept deaths of
young men are provided for—and that the
deaths of young women, and the deaths of little
children, are provided for;
I do not doubt that wrecks at sea, no matter what the
horrors of them—no matter whose wife, child,
husband, father, lover, has gone down—are provided for,
to the minutest point;
I do not doubt that shallowness, meanness,
malignance, are provided for;
I do not doubt that cities, you, America, the
remainder of the earth, politics, freedom,
degradations, are carefully provided for;
I do not doubt that whatever can possibly happen,
any where, at any time, is provided for, in the
inherences of things.