Gyda'r gred hon, y mae'n ddigon tebyg, y daeth ei amheuon a'i oriau tywyllion, am y rhai y canodd yn ddwys ac yn gywir:
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 in faith, but pure in deeds,
At last he beat his music out,
There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.
Rhed yr ymdrech fawr hon drwy'r gerdd—Pa beth sydd wir? Pa beth a ddaw o ddyn? Ai marw fydd cariad, ac ofer? Ni allai'r bardd ddim credu hynny:
Still onward winds the dreary way,
I with it; for I long to prove
No lapse of moons can canker Love,
Whatever fickle tongues may say.
I hold it true, whate'er befall,
I feel it, when I sorrow most,
"Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
