Sonnet XIX.

Not anger, not contempt should be thy meed,
Not scornful indignation, but most deep
And sorrowing pity, soul that canst not sleep
For inborn turbulence, but still dost feed
Passion insane, with vengeful word and deed;
And so from strife to strife for ever leap,
While strangers marvel, foes deride, friends weep,
And good men pray for thee, and kind hearts bleed;
Meanwhile, by headstrong and impetuous will,
Thou on thy blind and desperate course art driven,
And dost the air with wrath and discord fill,
At enmity with all, though oft forgiven;
Thus growing, here on earth, more restless still,
And more unfit for future rest in Heaven.