Classic Poem

Why shak'st my heart like waters of the lake,
Perturbed by airs too weak to move a reed?
Wilt thou be ever swelling, like to break,
With idle words that others would not heed?
Woe worth the feeling soul — ordained to feed
On sorrows day by day, while none can take
The arrows from his wounded heart, and make
It cease to palpitate, and ache, and bleed.
Oh! sensibility! I pray thee take
Thy melting pangs for ever from my heart,
And let it wax insensible as stone;
Withdraw both joy and pain, and let me wake
To busy life so bold that I may find
No other soulless feeling than my own.