Free Will
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* 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?
* George Meredith.

Webpage © 2001 ELC
Lane Core Jr. (
Created April 10, 2001; not revised.