Poem by Arthur Christopher Benson

Self

This is my chiefest torment, that behind
    The brave and subtle spirit, the swift brain,
    There sits and shivers, in a cell of pain,
A groping atom, melancholy, blind,
Which is myself; -- though, when spring suns are kind,
    And rich leaves riot in the genial rain,
    I cheat him, dreaming: slip my rigorous chain,
Free as a skiff before the dancing wind.
Then he awakes: and vexed that I am glad,
  In dreary malice strains some nimble cord,
      Pricks his thin claw within some delicate nerve;
      And all at once I falter, start, and swerve
From my true course, to fall, unmanned and sad,
  Into gross darkness, tangible, abhorred.

1. Land of Hope and Glory
2. Prayer
3. The Pheonix
4. February
5. Knap Weed

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