From “In Memoriam,” XCV.
YOU say, but with no touch of scorn,
  Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes
  Are tender over drowning flies,
You tell me, doubt is Devil-born.

I know not: one indeed I knew
  In many a subtle question versed,
  Who touched a jarring lyre at first,
But ever strove to make it true:

Perplext...