I balk as superstition’s arrows
wing at snakes and hit the hiss,
knowing firmly fortune farrows
as it will and doesn’t miss,
which is itself a fateful view;
if I cast fortune as a force
that won’t distinguish me from you
and romps from every wonted course
I must be superstitious too,
but trammelled by a class of laws
I can’t construe as gods or fate.
For all I might commend my cause
there’s nothing to propitiate.