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-cased, 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.

⁠1866.