Classic Poem

WHEREIN, THOUGH SORE BESTEAD WITH PAIN, NATHELESS HE CONSIDERS HIMSELF THE HAPPIEST OF MEN

I sang, who now am sad, nor found I more
Sweetness in song than now in grief I find:
For on the cause, not consequence, inclined,
Still do my senses toward the summits soar,
Whence, whether she be mild or stubborn, or
Act in some cruel wise or in some kind,
I equally endure, nor can weights bind,
Nor point of anger through my armour bore.
Let therefore Love and Laura, destiny
And this the world continue in their course,
For in my grief I glory constantly:
Living or dying, or between, or worse,
No gentler state beneath the moon for me —
So sweet a source has pain, so sweet a source!