You say, but with no touch of scorn, <br /> Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes <br /> Are tender over drowning flies, <br /> You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. <br /> I know not: one indeed I knew <br /> In many a subtle question versed, <br /> Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first, <br /> But ever strove to make it true: <br /> Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, <br /> At last he beat his music out. <br /> There lives more faith in honest doubt, <br /> Believe me, than in half the creeds. <br /> <br /> He fought his doubts and gather'd strength, <br /> He would not make his judgment blind, <br /> He faced the spectres of the mind <br /> And laid them: thus he came at length <br /> <br /> To find a stronger faith his own; <br /> And Power was with him in the night, <br /> Which makes the darkness and the light, <br /> And dwells not in the light alone, <br /> <br /> But in the darkness and the cloud, <br /> As over Sinaï's peaks of old, <br /> While Israel made their gods of gold, <br /> Altho' the trumpet blew so loud.<br /><br />Alfred Lord Tennyson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-memoriam-a-h-h-96-you-say-but-with-no-touch-o/
