Cowper

Mad with the malady of the mind, he
With pen on paper fashioned poetry;
Betraying the inward man of sublime
Thoughts, words weaved with fabrics of woe and glee.

Many a time muddled by the blackest
Of seemingly unfounded vexations;
That existence, the mortal enemy,
His own, sought to vanquish and lay to rest.

May it have been fruitful, his darkened bent,
Had it not been for the Great Father's love;
That from his earthly one scarcely gathered,
But too precious was this child to be rent.

Merry in life, it cannot be said of
This bruised reed that bloomed flowers of lyric;
Yet in vain his pain was not, for divine
Was the hand that meted out the saint's lot.