So tired are all my thoughts, that, sense and spirits fail: Mourning I pine, and know not what I ail. O what can yield ease to a mind Joy in nothing that can find? How are my powers fore-spoke? What strange distaste is this? Hence, cruel hate of that which sweetest is! Come, come delight! make my dull brain Feel once heat of joy again. The lover's tears are sweet, their mover makes them so; Proud of a wound the bleeding soldiers grow. Poor I alone, dreaming, endure Grief that knows nor cause nor cure. And whence can all this grow? even from an idle mind, That no delight in any good can find. Action alone makes the soul blest: Virtue dies with too much rest. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WORD OF AN ENGINEER by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON LEAVES OF A MAGAZINE by MARIANNE MOORE INFERENTIAL by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE OLD ARM-CHAIR by ELIZA COOK THREE FRIENDS OF MINE: 5; SONNET by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW |