Анна Сьюард (Anna Seward)

Sonnet 14. Ingratitude, how deadly is thy smart

Ingratitude, how deadly is thy smart
    Proceeding from the Form we fondly love!
    How light, compared, all other sorrows prove!
    Thou shed'st a Night of Woe, from whence depart
The gentle beams of Patience, that the heart
    'Mid lesser ills, illume.—Thy Victims rove
    Unquiet as the Ghost that haunts the Grove
    Where Murder spilt the life-blood.—O! thy dart
Kills more than Life,—e'en all that makes Life dear;
    Till we “the sensible of pain” wou'd change
    For Phrenzy, that defies the bitter tear;
Or wish, in kindred callousness, to range
    Where moon-ey'd Idiocy, with fallen lip,
    Drags the loose knee, and intermitting step.

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