Fortune

Within the hollowed hand of God,

Blood-red they lie, the dice of fate,

That have no time nor period,

And know no early and no late.

Postpone you can not, nor advance

Success or failure that's to be;

All fortune, being born of chance,

Is bastard-child to destiny.

Bow down your head, or hold it high,

Consent, defy — no smallest part

Of this you change, although the die

Was fashioned from your living heart.