A Common Sorrow

  O thousands, who have never found your mates,
      But pine in secret for their love unknown,
  O thousands, whom perverse and bitter fates
      Force, evilly-mated, still to dwell alone,—
  O multitude, mismatch'd for loves and hates!
      Would God, some gracious amnesty were given,
          Some general goal-delivery of minds,
      Freed from these bonds of earth, unblest by heaven,
          Bursting the chain that cankers while it binds
      The many wedded slaves, in couples driven
  Together down the thorniest path of Life!
Would God, some privilege of wider range
  Cheer'd the poor martyrs of domestic strife,
Giving to such the happy chance of change.