Classic Poem

Strange — strange, O mortal Life,
The perverse gifts that came to me from you!
From childhood I have wanted all good things:
You gave me few.

You gave me faith in One —
Divine — above your own imperious might,
O mortal Life, while I but wanted you
And your delight.

I wanted dancing feet,
And flowery, grassy paths by laughing streams;
You gave me loitering steps, and eyes all blurred
With tears and dreams.

I wanted love, — and, lo!
As though in mockery, you gave me loss.
O'erburdened sore, I wanted rest: you gave
The heavier cross.

I wanted one poor hut
For mine own home, to creep away into:
You gave me only lonelier desert lands
To journey through.

Now, at the last vast verge
Of barren age, I stumble, reel, and fling
Me down, with strength all spent and heart athirst
And famishing.

Yea, now, Life, deal me death, —
Your worst — your vaunted worst!
. . . Across my breast
With numb and fumbling hands I gird me for
The best.