A TWOFOLD harm we hate in thy one name, Thou who a bitter foe still enterest At doors set wide to greet the longed-for guest; A spy to track our hope the way she came, And stab her at the goal; a juggler's game, That tricks with least for most, and worst for best; Spiller of o'er-brimming joy-cups; Fate's old jest: A pleasure poisoned, and a frustrate fame. Thus many speak thy blame, and none denies; Yet some there be who dream that far from here Men meet thee as they fare in friendlier guise: Rued loss's gain, dawn-rose on midnight drear, Swift guide through wonder-gates of rapt surmise, Blithe laughter in the mask-reft face of Fear. |