FREE WILL
Reading edition
Dear are some hidden things My soul has sealed in silence; past delights, Hope unconfessed; desires with hampered wings, Remembered in the nights.
But my best treasures are Ignoble, undelightful, abject, cold; Yet O! profounder hoards oracular No reliquaries hold.
There lie my trespasses, Abjured but not disowned. I’ll not accuse Determinism, nor, as the Master [26] says, Charge even “the poor Deuce.”
Under my hand they lie, My very own, my proved iniquities, And though the glory of my life go by I hold and garner these.
How else, how otherwhere. How otherwise, shall I discern and grope For lowliness? How hate, how love, how dare, How weep, how hope?