 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
171
FORTUNE
Within the hollowed hand of God
Blood-red they lie, the dice of Fate,
That have no time nor period,
And know no early and no late.
Blood-red they lie, the dice of Fate,
That have no time nor period,
And know no early and no late.
Postpone you can not, nor advance
Success or failure that 's to be;
All fortune, being born of chance,
Is bastard child to destiny.
Success or failure that 's to be;
All fortune, being born of chance,
Is bastard child to destiny.
Bow down your head, or hold it high,
Consent, defy—no smallest part
Of this you change, although the die
Was fashioned from your living heart.
Consent, defy—no smallest part
Of this you change, although the die
Was fashioned from your living heart.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |