Hap

    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. . .

    These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown

    Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.