Dear Are Some Hidden Things My Soul Has Sealed In Silence; Past Delights, Hope Unconfessed; Desires With Hampered Wings, Remembered In The Nights. But My Best Treasures Are Ignoble, Undelightful, Abject, Cold; Yet O! Profounder Hoards Oracular No Reliquaries Hold. There Lie My Trespasses, Abjured But Not Disowned. I'll Not Accuse Determinism, Nor, As The Master {26} Says, Charge Even "The Poor Deuce." Under My Hand They Lie, My Very Own, My Proved Iniquities, And Though The Glory Of My Life Go By I Hold And Garner These. How Else, How Otherwhere. How Otherwise, Shall I Discern And Grope For Lowliness? How Hate, How Love, How Dare, How Weep, How Hope?