Long have I framed weak phantasies of Thee, <br /> O Willer masked and dumb! <br /> Who makest Life become, - <br />As though by labouring all-unknowingly, <br /> Like one whom reveries numb. <br /> <br />How much of consciousness informs Thy will <br /> Thy biddings, as if blind, <br /> Of death-inducing kind, <br />Nought shows to us ephemeral ones who fill <br /> But moments in Thy mind. <br /> <br />Perhaps Thy ancient rote-restricted ways <br /> Thy ripening rule transcends; <br /> That listless effort tends <br />To grow percipient with advance of days, <br /> And with percipience mends. <br /> <br />For, in unwonted purlieus, far and nigh, <br /> At whiles or short or long, <br /> May be discerned a wrong <br />Dying as of self-slaughter; whereat I <br /> Would raise my voice in song.<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/greek-title/
