IF but some vengeful god would call to me <br /> From up the sky, and laugh: "Thou suffering thing, <br /> Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy, <br /> That thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!" <br /> <br /> Then would I bear, and clench myself, and die, <br /> Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited; <br /> Half-eased, too, that a Powerfuller than I <br /> Had willed and meted me the tears I shed. <br /> <br /> But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain, <br /> And why unblooms the best hope ever sown? <br /> --Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain, <br /> And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan.... <br /> These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown <br /> Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hap/
