The Pessimist

You that have snarled through the ages, take your answer and go--     I know your hoary question, the riddle that all men know.     You have weighed the stars in a balance, and grasped the skies in a span:     Take, if you must have answer, the word of a common man.     Deep in my life lies buried one love unhealed, unshriven,     One hunger still shall haunt me--yea, in the streets of heaven;     This is the burden, babbler, this is the curse shall cling,     This is the thing I bring you; this is the pleasant thing.     'Gainst you and all your sages, no joy of mine shall strive,     This one dead self shall shatter the men you call alive.     My grief I send to smite you, no pleasure, no belief,     Lord of the battered grievance, what do you know of grief?     I only know the praises to heaven that one man gave,     That he came on earth for an instant, to stand beside a grave,     The peace of a field of battle, where flowers are born of blood.     I only know one evil that makes the whole world good.     Beneath this single sorrow the globe of moon and sphere     Turns to a single jewel, so bright and brittle and dear     That I dread lest God should drop it, to be dashed into stars below.     You that have snarled through the ages, take your answer and go.