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The Impercipient



That from this bright believing band An outcast I should be, That faiths by which my comrades stand Seem fantasies to me, And mirage-mists their Shining Land, Is a drear destiny.

Why thus my soul should be consigned To infelicity, Why always I must feel as blind To sights my brethren see, Why joys they've found I cannot find, Abides a mystery.

Since heart of mine knows not that ease Which they know; since it be That He who breathes All's Well to these Breathes no All's-Well to me, My lack might move their sympathies And Christian charity!

I am like a gazer who should mark An inland company Standing upfingered, with, "Hark! hark! The glorious distant sea!" And feel, "Alas, 'tis but yon dark And wind-swept pine to me!"

Yet I would bear my shortcomings With meet tranquillity, But for the charge that blessed things I'd liefer have unbe. O, doth a bird deprived of wings Go earth-bound wilfully!

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Enough. As yet disquiet clings About us. Rest shall we.

Thomas Hardy