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.