I <br /> <br />"Why are your songs all wild and bitter sad <br />As funeral dirges with the orphans' cries? <br />Each night since first the world was made hath had <br />A sequent day to laugh it down the skies. <br />Chant us a glee to make our hearts rejoice, <br />Or seal in silence this unmanly moan." <br />My friend, I have no power to rule my voice -- <br />A spirit lifts me where I lie alone, <br />And thrills me into song by its own laws; <br />That which I feel, but seldom know, indeed <br />Tempering the melody it could not cause. <br />The bleeding heart cannot forever bleed <br />Inwardly solely; on the wan lips, too, <br />Dark blood will bubble ghastly into view. <br /> <br /> <br />II <br /> <br />Striving to sing glad songs, I but attain <br />Wild discords sadder than Grief's saddest tune; <br />As if an owl with his harsh screech should strain <br />To over-gratulate a thrush of June. <br />The nightingale upon its thorny spray <br />Finds inspiration in the sullen dark; <br />The kindling dawn, the world-wide joyous day <br />Are inspiration to the soaring lark; <br />The seas are silent in the sunny calm, <br />Their anthem surges in the tempest boom; <br />The skies outroll no solemn thunder psalm <br />Till they have clothed themselves with clouds of gloom. <br />My mirth can laugh and talk, but cannot sing; <br />My grief finds harmonies in everything.<br /><br />James Thomson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/two-sonnets-3/
