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 loves loss is my hates 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.