How dare one say it? After the cycles, poems, singers, plays, Vaunted Ionia’s, India’s--Homer, Shakspere--the long, long times’ thick dotted roads, areas, The shining clusters and the Milky Ways of stars--Nature’s pulses reap’d, All retrospective passions, heroes, war, love, adoration, All ages’ plummets dropt to their utmost depths, All human lives, throats, wishes, brains--all experiences’ utterance; After the countless songs, or long or short, all tongues, all lands, Still something not yet told in poesy’s voice or print--something lacking, (Who knows? the best yet unexpress’d and lacking.)