Pindar, the Theban, sang to Hieron <br />In Doric verse, rich as rough-hammered gold, <br />The Immortals deal to men, now as of old, <br />Two ill things for one good. These words, forth blown <br />From such a trumpet, through the ages groan <br />A note of misery. And yet I hold <br />That though they deal us evils manifold <br />We owe the High Powers gratitude alone. <br />For one good may be worth a thousand ills; <br />And all the sum of wretchedness that fills <br />The travailing earth, the sea, the arching blue <br />Cannot exceed the wealth of joy that lies <br />In sweet, low words, in smiles and loving eyes <br />Cannot compare with love, if love be true.<br /><br />John Hay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/compensation-5/
