Poems (Louisa Blake)/Sensibility

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SENSIBLLIY
I envy not the frozen heart
 Which cannot feel another's wo,
For the cold calculating soul
 The purest bliss can never know.

I envy not the stoic's boast,
 That he his feelings can enchain,
For truly they enjoy the most,
 Who feel extremes of bliss and pain.

I envy not the harden'd mind
 That never felt a load of care,
Nor yet the ever tearless eye
 Which shows no fount of feeling there:—

But to the feeling heart and mind
 Each sorrow brings with it relief]
For in the midst of agony,
 There is a joy, "the joy of grief."

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