Poetry
The Problem of the Puff-Adder ON thy loathed form a problem hangs— How came so vile a thing to be,
If quivering hate and venomed fangs Owe not their birth to devilry ?
Was each foul trait a thought divine ? Or was the dark imagining thine ?
Was all decreed, no chance, no choice, " No mingling of a " may " with " must," But Doom's inexorable Voice- " Brew death, and lurk in desert dust " Or, ere the shaping Hand was still, Was beauty marred by chosen ill ?
If thou eouldst urge that in thee lies The seed of better things to be, We might offset thy future rise Against thy present infamy ; But who has ever found a trace In thee of supervenient grace ?
So we must darkly ponder still What broods behind that baleful hiss ; Or shape, as shallow sophists will, A specious, soothing synthesis, And, fusing God with Nature, show' Since He is good, all must be so I
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