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.