Happy the maimed, the halt, the mad, the blind--All who, stamped separate by curtailing birth,
Owe no duty's allegiance to
Nor stand a valuing in their scheme of worth!
But I, whom Fate, not Nature, did curtail,
By no exterior voidness being exempt,
Must bear accusing glances where I fail,
Fixed in the general orbit of contempt.
Fate, less than Nature in being kind to lacking,
Giving the ill, shows not as outer cause,
Making our mock-free will the mirror's
Which Fate's own acts as if in itself shows; And men, like children, seeing the image there, Take place for cause and make our will Fate bear.
