Thomas Hardy

(2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928 / Dorchester / England)

Hap


IF but some vengeful god would call to me
From up the sky, and laugh: "Thou suffering thing,
Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,
That thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!"

Then would I bear, and clench myself, and die,
Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;
Half-eased, too, that a Powerfuller than I
Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.

But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,
And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?
--Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,
And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan....
These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown
Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.

Submitted: Tuesday, December 31, 2002

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  • Rebekka Abigail (1/27/2014 8:03:00 AM)

    This poem is about a man as he grapples with the uncertainty of whether life is ordained (determined by a God) or if things happen by chance (hap) . He wishes that a God were responsible for his struggles and suffering so that he could blame it on someone. As it is, he has nowhere to direct his anger (ire) . (Report) Reply

  • Semra Budak (2/26/2006 5:33:00 AM)

    it is really wonderfull. it is related wı th the chance, luck.you should look ı nto this poem. (Report) Reply

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