For thee are chosen want and wayfaring
In place of goods and ease thou dost desire,
Nor shall thy days the meanest comfort bring.
Hidden from thee, that lookest on the mire,
Is every comeliness: thy very tears
Wake not a weeping string in heaven’s quire;
But are distilled from all thy suffered years
As an ungracious and unwishéd rain,
When every hill a robe of torrent wears:
And not of anything art thou so fain
As of dull Death. So art thou justified,
For he shall bid thine angel sing again:
Shall set for thee his pleasant portals wide,
And thou that fleddest the rude breath of woe
Yet scaped him not, shalt see beatified
His direful children: smiling shalt thou go
And say, “Want, am I welcome, friend? And lo,
Sorrow my sister, Plague mine housefellow.”
1917.