Thomas Hardy (1840–1928). Wessex Poems and Other Verses. 1898.
43. The Impercipient
T
An outcast I should be,
That faiths by which my comrades stand
Seem fantasies to me,
And mirage-mists their Shining Land,
Is a drear destiny.
To infelicity,
Why always I must feel as blind
To sights my brethren see,
Why joys they’ve found I cannot find,
Abides a mystery.
Which they know; since it be
That He who breathes All’s Well to these
Breathes no All’s Well to me,
My lack might move their sympathies
And Christian charity!
An inland company
Standing upfingered, with, “Hark! hark!
The glorious distant sea!”
And feel, “Alas, ’tis but yon dark
And wind-swept pine to me!”
With meet tranquillity,
But for the charge that blessed things
I’d liefer have unbe.
Go earth-bound wilfully!
….
Enough. As yet disquiet clings
About us. Rest shall we.