Bad luck is such an awful term to pin
To active malice, as the home of art
And beauty, and the soul, is lanced with sin,
Punctured by superstition, torn apart
By things we cannot know, nor hope to win
By ghastly crimes against the human heart.
And yet it seems so preferable to feel
That mankind could not dream up such dark things,
To put it down to chance, lest we reveal
The harshest note a hopeful creature sings,
The crystal maw that bites, the bone that rings.
No prayer will mend the dead, nor time will heal;
As freedom takes flight from its blistered wings
Great bells of grief inexorably peal.
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