a life not
chosen, tho
pious played;
a world not
grown but giv’n
must we wade;
a dream not forged
but handed: so’s
the same: nothing’s
tame in being; not
mine or of me made:
naught to do in this life’s
pulse or frame—
but wager on, and win
and lose and brave the shame
of living—ah! so rolls
th’Eternal game.