A Shropshire Lad/Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle

by Alfred Edward Housman

XLVIII

Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong.Think rather,—call to thought, if now you grieve a little,The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.

Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarryI slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn;Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry:Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.

Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason, I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun. Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season: Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.

Ay, look high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation; All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain: Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation—Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again?

 

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