Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle, Earth and high heaven are fit 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 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?

A Shropshire Lad