Poems (Cary)/Perversity

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PERVERSITY.
If thy weak, puny hand might reach awayAnd rend out lightnings from the clouds to-day,At little pains, as, with a candle flame Touching the flax upon my distaff hereWould fill the house with light, it were the same—A little thing to do. It is the farMakes half the poet's passion for the star, The while he treads the shining dewdrop near.
Of mortal weaknesses I have my share— Pining and longing, and the madman's fitOf groundless hatreds, blindest loves, despair— But in this rhyméd musing I have writOf an infirmity that is not mine:My heart's dear idol were not less divineThat no grave gaped between us, black and steep;Though, if it were so, I could oversweep
 Its gulf—all gulfs—though ne'er so widely riven;Or from hot desert sands dig out sweet springs;For I believe, and I have still believed,That Love may even fold its milk-white wings In the red bosom of hell, nor up to heavenMeasure the distance with one thought aggrieved. ​ Why should I tear my flesh, and bruise my feet.,Climbing for roses, when, from where I stand,Down the green meadow I may reach my hand, And pluck them off as well?—sweet, very sweetThis world which God has made about us lies,—Shall we reproach him with unthankful eyes?

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