Who talks of hate,
Of poverty, of sickness, but sets rife
These very elements to mar his fate.
When love, health, happiness, and plenty hear
Their names repeated over day by day,
They wing their way like answering fairies near,
Then nestle down within our homes to stay.
Who talks of evil conjures into shape
The formless thing and gives it life and scope.
This is the law: then let no word escape
That does not breathe of everlasting hope.
FATE AND I
Wise men tell me thou, O Fate,
Art invincible and great.
Well, I own thy prowess; still
Dare I flout thee with my will
Thou canst shatter in a span
All the earthly pride of man.
Outward things thou canst control;
But stand back--I rule my soul!
Death? 'Tis such a little thing -
Scarcely worth the mentioning.
What has death to do with me,
Save to set my spirit free?
Something in me dwells, O Fate,
That can rise and dominate
Loss, and sorrow, and disaster, -
How, then, Fate, art thou my master?
In the great primeval morn
My immortal will was born,
Part of that stupendous Cause
Which conceived the Solar Laws,
Lit the suns and filled the seas,
Royalest of pedigrees.
That great Cause was Love, the Source
Who most loves has most of Force.
He who harbours Hate one hour
Saps the soul of Peace and Power.
He who will not hate his foe
Need not dread life's hardest blow.
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