The Impercipient Thomas Hardy

That from this bright believing band
         An outcast I should be,
That faiths by which my comrades stand
         Seem fantasies to me,
And mirage-mists their Shining Land,
         Is a drear destiny.

Why thus my soul should be consigned
         To infelicity,
Why always I must feel as blind
         To sights my brethren see,
Why joys they've found I cannot find,
         Abides a mystery.

Since heart of mine knows not that ease
         Which they know; since it be
That He who breathes All's Well to these
         Breathes no All's-Well to me,
My lack might move their sympathies
         And Christian charity!

I am like a gazer who should mark
         An inland company
Standing upfingered, with, "Hark! hark!
         The glorious distant sea!"
And feel, "Alas, 'tis but yon dark
         And wind-swept pine to me!"