Fate

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Fate

Oft, as I rest in quiet peace, am I

Thrust out at sudden doors, and madly driven

Through desert solitudes, and thunder-riven

Black passages which have not any sky:

The scourge is on me now, with all the cry

Of ancient life that hath with murder striven.

How many an anguish hath gone up to heaven,

How many a hand in prayer been lifted high

When the black fate came onward with the rush

Of whirlwind, avalanche, or fiery spume!

Even at my feet is cleft a shivering tomb

Beneath the waves; or else, with solemn hush

The graveyard opens, and I feel a crush

As if we were all huddled in one doom!