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, And 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. 1866.