Dear Joy, what have I done thee,
That thou shouldest flout or shun me?
I who have said and taught
That but for thee and thine
No promise were divine,
And all fulfilment nought;
That this vast universe
Were meaningless, or worse,
Unlighted by thy smile;
And every seeming end
An open trap, to lend
Force to some wile;
That Nature's self were just
A wanton, in her lust
Engendering life accurst,—
To wreck upon a sea
Of bootless change, and be
The sport of cureless thirst.
Yea, that in heaven above
God who is very Love
Would dwell forlorn of light;
Breathing out fatal breath
To quench in kindly death
Through one unending night!
Withhold from me your scorn,
And I as one new-born,
A child of Love and thee,—
Will live as not to shame thee,—
Dear Joy, do not disclaim me,
For few thy children be!
I'll learn to laugh and jest,
Or singing, sing my best,
And for each doleful ditty
Wherewith I seek to drain
The poison from my pain,
Turn stanzas wise or witty.
Yes, I could still be gay
As any child at play,
If thou wouldest stand me by!
And having gladly lived,—
My fall from thee retrieved,—
I then could gladly die.