 | Poems |  |
41
Psychology
A hell for which no heaven can make amends,—The hell of our unalterable past;
The clay once formed that cannot be re-cast,
The destiny once bent that ne'er unbends,
The inexorable fate that hews our ends,
Smooth-shape them how we will; the flowers so fast
To fade away, the weeds so long to last,
Though pious forethought all the garden tends.
Behold! we choose our colours with what care,
To paint the pattern of our life withal!
What prudent laws observe to make it fair!
But all in vain! Our hues and shapes appal!
We have been painting on a prison-wall,
And madden, staring,—ever doomed to stare.
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