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, and clench myself, and die,
      Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;
    Half-eased, too, 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.

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