Free Will

Dear are some hidden things                 My soul has sealed in silence; past delights,          Hope unconfessed; desires with hampered wings,                 Remembered in the nights.          But my best treasures are                 Ignoble, undelightful, abject, cold;          Yet O! profounder hoards oracular                 No reliquaries hold.          There lie my trespasses,                 Abjured but not disowned.    Ill not accuse          Determinism, nor, as the Master {26} says,                 Charge even "the poor Deuce."          Under my hand they lie,                 My very own, my proved iniquities,          And though the glory of my life go by                 I hold and garner these.          How else, how otherwhere.                 How otherwise, shall I discern and grope          For lowliness?    How hate, how love, how dare,                 How weep, how hope?