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Poem by Arthur Hugh Clough


Life is Struggle


TO WEAR out heart, and nerves, and brain,
And give oneself a world of pain;
Be eager, angry, fierce, and hot,
Imperious, suppleGod knows what,
For whats all one to have or not;
O false, unwise, absurd, and vain!
For tis not joy, it is not gain,
It is not in itself a bliss,
Only it is precisely this
That keeps us all alive.

To say we truly feel the pain,
And quite are sinking with the strain;
Entirely, simply, undeceived,
Believe, and say we neer believed
The object, een were it achieved,
A thing we eer had cared to keep;
With heart and soul to hold it cheap,
And then to go and try it again;
O false, unwise, absurd, and vain!
O, tis not joy, and tis not bliss,
Only it is precisely this
That keeps us still alive.



Arthur Hugh Clough


Arthur Hugh Clough's other poems:
  1. The Song of Lamech
  2. O Thou of Llittle Faith
  3. Genesis XXIV
  4. Cold Comfort
  5. Hope Evermore and Believe!


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