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 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.
"Hap" by Thomas Hardy, 1866
Slapp Happy: Slow Moon's Rose (Link)
Thunderbolts At Play (above); Formation Above The Clouds (below) by Eric Sloane
