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. . .
Thеse purblind Doomsters had as readily strown
Blissеs about my pilgrimage as pain