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Poem by Arthur Hugh Clough


In The Depths


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.



                      Arthur Hugh Clough


Arthur Hugh Clough's other poems:
  1. Hope Evermore and Believe!
  2. Genesis XXIV
  3. O Thou of Llittle Faith
  4. Selene
  5. Thoughts of Home


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