INACTION

A thousand hearts are labouring for the good

Of poor mankind ill-civilized and chill;

A thousand minds are making war to ill

With thought or feeling ponderate or rude.

And I alone, as if not understood

By me the suffering that the sense doth fill,

Am sunk in an abeyance deep of will

In a wild, crazy somnolence of mood.

Thus show I mute and cold to misery

Yet not suspected thoughts like dim clouds float,

The presages of horrors, in my mind.

Thus am I miserable and my soul in me,

A skilful helmsman in a helmless boat,

Is like one loving beauty yet born blind.