Their Height In Heaven Comforts Not, By Emily Dickinson

    Their height in heaven comforts not,
    Their glory nought to me;
    ‘T was best imperfect, as it was;
    I ‘m finite, I can’t see.

    The house of supposition,
    The glimmering frontier
    That skirts the acres of perhaps,
    To me shows insecure.

    The wealth I had contented me;
    If ‘t was a meaner size,
    Then I had counted it until
    It pleased my narrow eyes

    Better than larger values,
    However true their show;
    This timid life of evidence
    Keeps pleading, “I don’t know.”