Flashed on him....
In the strange ironical scheme
Wherein he moved, of the Master-Dramatist,
It was his own ambiguous “chance” that slipt
A book of Malthus into his drowsy hand
And drew his drowsy eyes down to that law
Of struggling men and nations.
Was it “chance”
That in this intricate torch-race tossed him there
Light from one struggling on an alien track