Shall I decide it by a random shot?

Arthur Hugh Clough

1819 to 1861

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Whichever Nature and itself suggest,
Are not mere idle motions of the blood;
What if despair and hope alike be true?
The confidence of growth least understood
(Whoe’er can ask or hope) accord the best?
And always ’tis a fact that we are here,
And with being here, doth palsy-giving fear
Where the flowers grow, without it ne’er they could;
Of some deep intuition was begot.
Shall I decide it by a random shot?
The heart, ’tis manifest, is free to do
Our happy hopes, so happy and so good,
A seed there must have been upon the spot
And when they seem most baseless, most are not.

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