IT is not sweet content, be sure, That moves the nobler Muse to song, Yet when could truth come whole and pure From hearts that inly writhe with wrong? 'Tis not the calm and peaceful breast That sees or reads the problem true; They only know on whom 't has prest Too hard to hope to solve it too. Our ills are worse than at their ease These blameless happy souls suspect, They only study the disease, Alas, who live not to detect. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INTELLECT by RALPH WALDO EMERSON LESSER EPISTLES: TO A LADY ON HER PASSION FOR OLD CHINA by JOHN GAY BROTHERS by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS THE SONG OF HIAWATHA: HIAWATHA'S WOOING by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW PICTURE-SHOW by SIEGFRIED SASSOON |