by A. E. Housman
Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,
 Earth and high heaven are fixt 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
 I 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?