BECAUSE I have not done the things I know I ought to do, my very soul is sad; And furthermore, because that I have had Delights that should have made to overflow My cup of gladness, and have not been glad. All in the midst of plenty, poor I live; My house, my friend, with heavy heart I see, As if that mine they were not meant to be; For of the sweetness of the things I have A churlish conscience dispossesses me. I do desire, nay, long, to put my powers To better service than I yet have done -- Not hither, thither, without purpose run, And gather just a handful of the flowers, And catch a little sunlight of the sun. Lamenting all the night and all the day Occasion lost, and losing in lament The golden chances that I know were meant For wiser uses -- asking overpay When nothing has been earned, and all was lent. Keeping in dim and desolated ways, And where the wild winds whistle loud and shrill Through leafless bushes, and the birds are still, And where the lights are lights of other days -- A sad insanity o'ermastering will. And saddest of the sadness is to know It is not fortune's fault, but only mine, That far away the hills of roses shine -- And far away the pipes of pleasure blow -- That we, and not our stars, our fates assign. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AT A LUNAR ECLIPSE by THOMAS HARDY THE SOLDIER by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS LANCER by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN MOUNTAIN LAUREL by ALFRED NOYES SIDNEY GODOLPHIN by CLINTON SCOLLARD THE DRUM: THE NARRATIVE OF THE DEMON OF TEDWORTH by EDITH SITWELL SINCE THOU ART GONE by HENRY VAUGHAN SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 33. RED DAWN by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |