Implication
God, you complain, gave you a pretty face—
And that, you half imply, explains it all;
Your sudden rise and still more sudden fall;
The flashy triumph and half-proud disgrace.
Bitter, but still resolved to keep your place,
You mock at signs of faith and honor, call
Life an unmeaning farce, a madman's brawl,
And lay it all on Him, in any case.
But why blame God? Is it His fault again?
He knows, it seems, little of needs or goals;
God's a haphazard giver, and all men
Grow careless with their battered aureoles.
He made you with a pretty face…. But then,
God can not make us all with pretty souls.