Walt Whitman

Of the terrible doubt of appearances,
Of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,
That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,
That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable
   only,
May-be the things I perceive, the animals, plants, men, hills,
   shining and flowing waters,
The skies of day and night, colors, densities, forms, may-be
   these are (as doubtless they are) only apparitions and
   the real something has yet to be known,…
To me these and the like of these are curiously answer’d by
   my lovers, my dear friends
When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while
   holding me by the hand,
When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words
   and reason hold not, surround and pervade us,
Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom, I am
   silent, I require nothing further.
I cannot answer the question of appearances or that of
   identity beyond the grave.
But I walk or sit indifferent, I am satisfied.
He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.