A crowned Caprice is god of the world:

On his stony breast are his white wings furled.

No ear to hearken, no eye to see,

No heart to feel for a man hath he.

But his pitiless hands are swift to smite,

And his mute lips utter one word of might

In the clash of gentler souls and rougher--

'Wrong must thou do, or wrong must suffer.' Then grant, O dumb, blind god, at least that we

Rather the sufferers than the doers be.




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