While mad Ophelia we lament, And Her distraction mourn, Our grief's misplac'd, Our tears misspent, Since what for Her condition's meant, More justly fits Our Own. For if 'tis happiness to be, From all the turns of Fate, From dubious Joy, and sorrow free; Ophelia then is blest, and we Misunderstand Her state. The Fates may do whate'er they will, They can't disturb her mind, Insensible of good or ill, Ophelia is Ophelia still Be Fortune cross or kind. Then make with reason no more noise, Since what should give relief, The quiet of Our mind destroys, Or with a full spring-tide of joys, Or a dead-ebb of grief. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TRAIL OF NINETY-EIGHT by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE FRAGMENT OF A CHORUS OF A DEJANEIRA by MATTHEW ARNOLD SELF-CONGRATULATION by ANNE BRONTE EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES TO BE CHEERFUL by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |