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Be Still, My Soul, Be Still
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Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,
Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong.
Think rather,-- call to thought, if now you grieve a little,
The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.
Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry
I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn;
Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry:
Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.
Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason,
I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun.
Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season:
Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.
Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation;
All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain:
Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation--
Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again?
Alfred Edward Housman
Read poems about / on: sorry, heaven, hate, sleep, fear, sun, spring, running
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Wendy Bureau (6/17/2008 12:10:00 PM)
Very well written with a voice unmistakable. Good imagery and flow, my first read here on PoemHunter, and very much enjoyed. Write on Poet! |
Janri Gogeshvili (6/17/2008 11:05:00 AM)
Melancholy of an ornament for talented … |
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Alfred Edward Housman
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