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.