This law, thou say’st, revolts thy sense of right;
It strikes thee merely as a strange caprice;
A snare where reason trips at every step—
Let us confess and judge it not, great bard!
Like thine, my mind with darkness is replete,
And not for me it is to explain the world:
Let Him who made, explain the universe.
The more I sound the abyss, the more, alas!
I lose myself amid its viewless depths.
Grief, here below, to grief is ever linked,