A Prayer

A crowned caprice is god of this world ;
On his stony breast are his white wings furled.
No ear to listen, no eye to see,
No heart to feel for a man hath he.
But his pitiless arm is swift to smite ;
And his mute lips utter one word of might,
'Mid the clash of gentler souls and rougher,
‘Wrong must thou do, or wrong must suffer.'
Then grant, O dumb, blind god, at least that we
Rather the sufferers than the doers be.