What profits it to me, though here allowed Life, sunlight, leisure, if they fail to urge Me to due motion or myself to merge With the onward stream, too humble, or too proud? That find myself not with the popular surge Washed off and on, or up to higher reefs Flung with the foremost when the rolling crowd Hoists like a wave, nor strong to speak aloud. But standing here, gazing on mine own griefs, Dark household woe, and wounds that bleed and smart, With still lips and an outcry in the heart, Or on from day to day I coldly creep By summer farms and fields, by stream and steep, Dull, and like one exhausted with deep sleep. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN ODE IN IMITATION OF ALCAEUS by WILLIAM JONES THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER: JANUARY by EDMUND SPENSER UPON A WASP CHILLED WITH COLD by EDWARD TAYLOR ON THE LIFE OF MAN by FRANCIS BEAUMONT THE MOABITESS by PHILLIPS BROOKS TREE-BURIAL by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT HOME, SWEET HOME WITH VARIATIONS: 5. OLIVER GOLDSMITH by HENRY CUYLER BUNNER |