I think of wife and child who perished not;
When dies my wife or son, I thank the gods
That Death crept all so near and touched not me.
And when his certain hour to clutch me comes
I'll think of famines, plagues, of earthquakes, floods,
And nations swept away. And still I'll cure
Such broad affliction with the thought of how
The Universe itself is but a shell
To crackle when it please the hand that made it.
So, friends, I mend each woe with its own cloth