With every disaster, I have come to believe for my own personal reasons, comes a compensation, a certain balancing of the accounts — not spread evenly about but clumped here and there, of benefit to very few.
“When I, poor Lais, with my crown
Of beauty could laugh Hellas down,
Young lovers crowded at my door,
Where no my lovers come no more.
So, Goddess, you will not refuse
A mirror that has now no use;
For what I was I cannot be,
And what I am I will not see.”
Edwin Arlington Robinson | “Lais to Aphrodite,” after the Greek of Plato