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.