De Profundis - II

"Considerabam ad dexteram, et videbam; et non erat qui cognosceret me     . . . Non est qui requirat animam meam." - Ps. cxli.     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.     1895-96.