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 quarry
 I 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?

XLIX

Think no more, lad; laugh, be jolly: 
 Why should men make haste to die? 
Empty heads and tongues a-talking
Make the rough road easy walking,
And the feather pate of folly
 Bears the falling sky.

Oh, ’tis jesting, dancing, drinking
 Spins the heavy world around. 
If young hearts were not so clever,
Oh, they would be young for ever: 
Think no more; ’tis only thinking
 Lays lads underground.

L

_ Clunton and Clunbury,
 Clungunford and Clun,
Are the quietest places
 Under the sun. _

In valleys of springs of rivers,
 By Ony and Teme and Clun,
The country for easy livers,
 The quietest under the sun,

We still had sorrows to lighten,
 One could not be always glad,
And lads knew trouble at Knighton
 When I was a Knighton lad.

By bridges that Thames runs under,
 In London, the town built ill,
’Tis sure small matter for wonder
 If sorrow is with one still.

And if as a lad grows older
 The troubles he bears are more,
He carries his griefs on a shoulder
 That handselled them long before.

Where shall one halt to deliver
 This luggage I’d lief set down? 
Not Thames, not Teme is the river,
 Nor London nor Knighton the town: 

’Tis a long way further than Knighton,
 A quieter place than Clun,
Where doomsday may thunder and lighten
 And little ’twill matter to one.

LI

Loitering with a vacant eye
Along the Grecian gallery,
And brooding on my heavy ill,
I met a statue standing still. 
Still in marble stone stood he,
And stedfastly he looked at me. 
“Well met,” I thought the look would say,
“We both were fashioned far away;
We neither knew, when we were young,
These Londoners we live among.”