The Poetry Corner

Sonnet XCIV.

By Anna Seward

All is not right with him, who ill sustains Retirement's silent hours. - Himself he flies, Perchance from that insipid equipoise, Which always with the hapless mind remains That feels no native bias; never gains One energy of will, that does not rise From some external cause, to which he hies From his own blank inanity. - When reigns, With a strong, cultur'd mind, this wretched hate To commune with himself, from thought that tells Of some lost joy, or dreaded stroke of Fate He struggles to escape; - or sense that dwells On secret guilt towards God, or Man, with weight Thrice dire, the self-exiling flight impels.