In The Depths
Arthur Hugh Clough
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?
‘T is 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.
Next 10 Poems
- Arthur Hugh Clough : Noli Aemulari
- Arthur Hugh Clough : Perche Pensa? Pensando S'invecchia
- Arthur Hugh Clough : Qua Cursum Ventus
- Arthur Hugh Clough : Say Not The Struggle Naught Availeth
- Arthur Hugh Clough : Say Not The Struggle Nought Availeth
- Arthur Hugh Clough : The Last Decalogue
- Arthur Hugh Clough : The Thread Of Truth
- Arthur Hugh Clough : There Is No God, The Wicked Sayeth
- Arthur Hugh Clough : Through A Glass Darkly
- Arthur Hugh Clough : To Spend Uncounted Years Of Pain
Previous 10 Poems
- Arthur Hugh Clough : In A London Square
- Arthur Hugh Clough : In A Lecture Room
- Arthur Hugh Clough : How In All Wonder...
- Arthur Hugh Clough : How In All Wonder Columbus Got Over
- Arthur Hugh Clough : All Is Well
- Arthur Hugh Clough : Ah! Yet Consider It Again!
- Arthur Hugh Clough : Across The Sea Along The Shore
- John Clare : Wood Rides
- John Clare : Where She Told Her Love
- John Clare : What Is Life?
