Arthur Christopher Benson

Self

This is my chiefest torment, that behind
    The brave and subtle spirit, the swift brain,
    There sits and shivers, in a cell of pain,
A groping atom, melancholy, blind,
Which is myself; -- though, when spring suns are kind,
    And rich leaves riot in the genial rain,
    I cheat him, dreaming: slip my rigorous chain,
Free as a skiff before the dancing wind.
Then he awakes: and vexed that I am glad,
  In dreary malice strains some nimble cord,
      Pricks his thin claw within some delicate nerve;
      And all at once I falter, start, and swerve
From my true course, to fall, unmanned and sad,
  Into gross darkness, tangible, abhorred.