There are strange complications in it all,
This life of ours—had I fourfold the wit
That as his share to any man doth fall,
I fear me that I could not fathom it.

This sorrow bringing laughter, and joy tears,
Conflicting things we cannot understand;
This constant longing for great length of years,
That brings but weary limb and feeble hand;

Eyes that are dim, and saddened, lowly life;
These hot-waged wars, squalid with cries of pain,
This joy in contest and this thirst for strife,
In which both suffer, and there is no gain;

Strong love that ere long turns to stronger hate,
Sin leading into good, good into sin—
In very truth do lambs with tigers mate.
The world is wide, and strange things are therein.

Fortnight, 1887.