Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE HURRY OF THE SPIRITS, IN A FEVER AND NERVOUS DISORDERS, by ISAAC WATTS Poet's Biography First Line: My frame of nature is a ruffled sea Last Line: And pay their duties to the ruling mind? Subject(s): Insanity; Madness; Mental Illness | ||||||||
MY frame of nature is a ruffled sea, And my disease the tempest. Nature feels A strange commotion to her inmost centre; The throne of reason shakes. 'Be still, my thoughts; Peace and be still.' In vain my reason gives The peaceful word, my spirit strives in vain To calm the tumult and command my thoughts. This flesh, this circling blood, these brutal powers Made to obey, turn rebels to the mind, Nor hear its laws. The engine rules the man. Unhappy change! When nature's meaner springs, Fired to impetuous ferments, break all order; When little restless atoms rise and reign Tyrants in sovereign uproar, and impose Ideas on the mind; confused ideas Of non-existents and impossibles. Who can describe them? Fragments of old dreams, Borrowed from midnight, torn from fairy fields And fairy skies, and regions of the dead, Abrupt, ill-sorted. O 'tis all confusion! If I but close my eyes, strange images In thousand forms and thousand colours rise, Stars, rainbows, moons, green dragons, bears, and ghosts, An endless medley, rush upon the stage, And dance and riot wild in reason's court Above control. I'm in a raging storm, Where seas and skies are blended, while my soul Like some light worthless chip of floating cork Is tossed from wave to wave: now overwhelmed With breaking floods I drown, and seem to lose All being; now high-mounted on the ridge Of a tall foaming surge, I'm all at once Caught up into the storm, and ride the wind, The whistling wind; unmanageable steed, And feeble rider! Hurried many a league Over the rising hills of roaring brine, Through airy wilds unknown, with dreadful speed And infinite surprise; till some few minutes Have spent the blast, and then perhaps I drop Near to the peaceful coast; some friendly billow Lodges me on the beach, and I find rest. Short rest I find; for the next rolling wave Snatches me back again; then ebbing far Sets me adrift, and I'm borne off to sea Helpless, amidst the bluster of the winds, Beyond the ken of shore. Ah, when will these tumultuous scenes be gone? When shall this weary spirit, tossed with tempests, Harrassed and broken, reach the port of rest, And hold it firm? When shall this wayward flesh With all th' irregular springs of vital movement Ungovernable, return to sacred order, And pay their duties to the ruling mind? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PARENTS OF PSYCHOTIC CHILDREN by MARVIN BELL VISITS TO ST. ELIZABETHS by ELIZABETH BISHOP FOR THE MAD by LUCILLE CLIFTON STONEHENGE by ALBERT GOLDBARTH DAY ROOM: ST. ELIZABETHS HOSPITAL by MICHAEL S. HARPER SEELE IN RAUM by RANDALL JARRELL |
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