Would life yet better be without trammel, trial, or trouble?
Would I shorn of burden, bit, and bridle find the naked bliss?
My sentiments are existential certain while reason's mind is double,
for denying sorrow's lessons I'd of their honor due be nothing but remiss.
This native habit attends me like winter's shadow trim,
from which if I be loosed could ignore the season's dreary gauge,
but further free be also robbed of trace and left in formless dim,
where without clock or compass ne'er venture to the coming age.
As such all dreams that do aspire beyond the ceiling vault,
that nurture paradaisic possibilities where gravity obtains,
are but the whisps of incensed vanity and superstitious fault,
which must be snuffed by brazen cup lest fantasy remains.
Instead, I'll yield to life whose harshness is its ease,
embracing all that owns my fate and lucky cast the lot,
and settle with my harness that its chafing me does please,
Him who by the same, and more, once bearing has all my sadness bought.
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