Classic Poem

Whether my sonnet be of grief or joy,
It ever is preceded by depression —
A heaviness, like guilt before confession,
Which only in revealment finds alloy
So, when the sweets of earth begin to cloy,
And all the world seems barr'd to my progression,
I know my soul has in it a possession
Which will be out, or cease not to annoy.
And yet I know not what this is, or whence!
Cloud-like it comes, but not like cloud disperses:
It comes uncall'd, nor will be driven hence,
And, left unto itself, it runs to verses.
If in this sonnet I have found relief,
Then has it done good work, though poor and brief.