So, loath to suffer mute,
We, peopling the void air,
Make gods to whom to impute
The ills we ought to bear;
With God and fate to rail at, suffering easily.
Yet grant,—as sense long missed
Things that are now perceived,
And much may still exist
Which is not yet believed,—
Grant that the world were full of gods we cannot see;
All things the world which fill
Of but one stuff are spun,
That we who rail are still,
With what we rail at, one;
One with the o'er-labored Power that through the breadth and length
Of earth, and air, and sea,
In men, and plants, and stones,
Hath toil perpetually,
And travails, pants, and moans;
Fain would do all things well, but sometimes fails in strength.
And patiently exact
This universal God
Alike to any act
Proceeds at any nod,
And quietly declaims the cursings of himself.
This is not what man hates,
Yet he can curse but this.
Harsh gods and hostile fates
Are dreams! this only is,—
Is everywhere; sustains the wise, the foolish elf.
