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"Considerabam ad dexteram,
et videbam; et non erat qui cognosceret me...
Non est qui requirat animan meam." - Ps. cxli
["I looked on my right hand, and beheld, but there
was no man that would know me;...no man cared
for my soul." - Psalm 142:4.]
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WHEN the clouds' swoln bosoms
echo back the shouts of the many and strong
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That things are all as they
best may be, save a few to be right ere
long,
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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.
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The stout upstanders say,
All's well with us; ruers have nought to
rue!
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And what the potent say
so oft, can it fail to be somewhat true?
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Breezily go they, breezily
come; their dust smokes around their career,
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Till I think I am one born
out of due time, who has no calling here.
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Their dawns bring lusty
joys, it seems; their evenings all that
is sweet;
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Our times are blessed times,
they cry: Life shapes it as is most meet,
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And nothing is much the
matter; there are many smiles to a tear;
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Then what is the matter
is I, I say. Why should such a one be here?...
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Let him in whose ears the
low-voiced Best is killed by the clash of
the First,
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Who holds that if way to
the Better there be, it exacts a full look
at the Worst,
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Who feels tht delight is
a delicate growth cramped by crookedness,
custom and fear,
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Get him up and be gone as
one shaped awry; he disturbs the order here.
-
Thomas Hardy
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