Free Will
Dear are some hidden things My soul has sealed in silence; past delights; Hope unconfessed; desires with hampered wings, Remembered in the nights. But my best treasures are Ignoble, undelightful, abject, cold; Yet O! profounder hoards oracular No reliquaries hold. There lie my trespasses, Abjured but not disowned. I'll not accuse Determinism, nor, as the Master* says, Charge even "the poor Deuce." Under my hand they lie, My very own, my proved iniquities; And though the glory of my life go by I hold and garner these. How else, how otherwhere, How otherwise, shall I discern and grope For lowliness? How hate, how love, how dare, How weep, how hope? *George Meredith
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