De Profundis II

When the clouds' swoln bosoms echo back the shouts of the many and

strong

That things are all as they best may be, save a few to be right ere

long,

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.

The stout upstanders say, All's well with us: ruers have nought to

rue!

And what the potent say so oft, can it fail to be somewhat true?

Breezily go they, breezily come; their dust smokes around their

career,

Till I think I am one horn out of due time, who has no calling here.

Their dawns bring lusty joys, it seems; their eves exultance sweet;

Our times are blessed times, they cry: Life shapes it as is most

meet,

And nothing is much the matter; there are many smiles to a tear;

Then what is the matter is I, I say. Why should such an one be here?

Let him to whose ears the low-voiced Best seems stilled by the clash

of the First,

Who holds that if way to the Better there be, it exacts a full look

at the Worst,

Who feels that delight is a delicate growth cramped by crookedness,

custom, and fear,

Get him up and be gone as one shaped awry; he disturbs the order

here.