10.2: Hap

Thomas Hardy

^[1]

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

Contributors and Attributions

• Template:ContribSexton

1. Chance, happenstance. ↵
2. Anger, wrath. ↵
3. Given. ↵
4. Chance. ↵
5. Partly blind and obtuse judges. ↵