Thomas Hardy (1840–1928). Wessex Poems and Other Verses. 1898.
3. Hap
I
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!”
Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;
Half-eased, too, that a Powerfuller than I
Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.
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.