83 Hap (53/91) -- English Literature: Victorians and Moder...

83 Hap Thomas Hardy 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[2] unmerited; Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I Had willed and meted[3] me the tears I shed. But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain, And why unblooms the best hope ever sown? —Crass Casualty[4] obstructs the sun and rain, And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan. . . . These purblind Doomsters[5] had as readily strown Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain. — 1898