If but some vengeful god would call to me

    From up the sky， and laugh： "Thou suffering thing，

    Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy，

    that thy love's loss is my hate's profiting！"

    Then would I bear it， clench myself， and die，

    Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited；

    Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I

    Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.

    But not so.  How arrives it joy lies slain，

    And why unblooms the best hope ever sown？

    ——Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain，

    And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan. . .

    These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown

    Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.