Opposition
Of fret, of dark, of thorn, of chill,Complain no more; for these, O heart,Direct the random of the willAs rhymes direct the rage of art.
The lute’s fixt fret, that runs athwartThe strain and purpose of the string,For governance and nice consortDoth bar his wilful wavering.
The dark hath many dear avails;The dark distils divinest dews;The dark is rich with nightingales,With dreams, and with the heavenly Muse.
Bleeding with thorns of petty strife,I’ll ease (as lovers do) my smartWith sonnets to my lady LifeWrit red in issues from the heart.
What grace may lie within the chillOf favor frozen fast in scorn!When Good’s a-freeze, we call it Ill!This rosy Time is glacier-born.
Of fret, of dark, of thorn, of chill,Complain thou not, O heart; for theseBank-in the current of the willTo uses, arts, and charities.
Baltimore, 1879–80.