Not wish, nor fear, nor quite expectancy
Is that vague spirit Surmise,
That wanderer, that wonderer whom we see
Within each other’s eyes;
And yet not often. For she flits away,
Fitful as infant thought,
Visitant at a venture, hope at play,
Unversed in facts, untaught.
In “the wide fields of possibility”
Surmise, conjecturing,
Makes little trials, incredulous, that flee
Abroad on random wing.
One day this inarticulate shall find speech,
This hoverer seize our breath.
Surmise shall close with man—with all, with each—
In her own sovereign hour, the moments of our death.