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.