I balk, as superstition’s arrows
wing at snakes and hit the hiss,
knowing fortune simply farrows
as it will, and will not miss,
which is itself a fateful view.
If I cast fortune as a force
that can’t distinguish me from you,
that romps from every wonted course,
perhaps I’m superstitious too,
though trammelled by a class of laws
that do not bracket gods, or fate;
how then to commend my cause
with nothing to propitiate?