1 I know not in Whose hands are laid To empty upon earth From unsuspected ambuscade The very Urns of Mirth; 2 Who bids the Heavenly Lark arise And cheer our solemn round– The Jest beheld with streaming eyes And grovellings on the ground; 3 Who joins the flats of Time and Chance Behind the prey preferred, And thrones on Shrieking Circumstance The Sacredly Absurd, 4 Till Laughter, voiceless through excess, Waves mute appeal and sore, Above the midriff's deep distress, For breath to laugh once more. 5 No creed hath dared to hail Him Lord, No raptured choirs proclaim, And Nature's strenuous Overword Hath nowhere breathed His Name. 6 Yet, it must be, on wayside jape, The selfsame Power bestows The selfsame power as went to shape His Planet or His Rose.
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