Hap

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.