In Tenebris II When the clouds' swoln bosoms echo back                                 the shouts of the many and strong That things are all as they best may be,                                 save a few to be right ere long, And my eyes have not the vision in them                                 to discern what to these is so clear, The blot seems straightway in me alone;                                 one better he were not here. The stout upstanders say, All's well                                  with us: ruers have nought to rue! And what the potent say so oft,                                 can it fail to be somewhat true? Breezily go they, breezily come;                                 their dust smokes around their career, Till I think I am one born out of due time,                                 who has no calling here. Their dawns bring lusty joys, it seems;                                 their evenings all that is sweet; Our times are blessed times, they cry:                                 Life shapes it as is most meet, And nothing is much the matter;                                 there are many smiles to a tear; Then what is the matter is I, I say.                                 Why should such an one be here? . . . Let him in whose ears the low-voiced Best                                 is killed by the clash of the First, Who holds that if way to the Better there be,                                 it exacts a full look at the Worst, Who feels that delight is a delicate growth                                 cramped by crookedness, custom, and fear, Get him up and be gone as one shaped awry;                                 he disturbs the order here. Thomas Hardy 1895-96