If but some vengeful god would call to me

    From up the sky， and laugh： "Thou suffering thing，

    Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy¹，

    that thy love's loss is my hate's profiting！"

    Then would I bear it， clench² myself， and die，

    Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited；

    Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I

    Had willed and meted³ me the tears I shed.

    But not so.  How arrives it joy lies slain⁴，

    And why unblooms the best hope ever sown？

    ——Crass Casualty obstructs⁵ the sun and rain，

    And dicing⁶ Time for gladness casts a moan. . .

    These purblind⁷ Doomsters had as readily strown

    Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.

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