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.