Classic Poem

So then, I feel not deeply! if I did,
I should have seized the pen, and pierced therewith
The passive world!
And thus thou reasonest?
Well hast thou known the lover's, not so well
The poet's heart: While that heart bleeds, the hand
Presses it close. Grief must run on, and pass
Near Memory's more quiet shade,
Before it can compose itself in song.
He who is agonised and turns to show
His agony to those who sit around,
Seizes the pen in vain: thought, fancy, power,
Rush back into his bosom; all the strength
Of genius can not draw them into light
From under mastering Grief; but Memory,
The Muse's mother, nurses, rears them up,
Informs, and keeps them with her all her days.