Sonnet XCIV
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.