I did not will this thing. I set my face
Towards duty and my art; I was alone.
How knew I thou shouldst roll away the stone
From hopes long buried, by thy tender grace?
What does it matter that we make resolve?
The Fates laugh at us as they sit and spin;
We cannot tell what Good is, or what Sin,
Or why old faiths in mist of pain dissolve.
We only can stand watchful in the way,
Waiting with patient hands on shield and sword,
Ready to meet disaster in the fray,
Till Time has struck the letters of one word—
Word of such high-born worth: triumphant Love,
Give me thy canopy where'er I rove.