My soul spoke low to Discontent:
Long hast thou lodged with me,
Now, ere the strength of me is spent,
I would be quit of thee.

Thy presence means revolt, unrest,
Means labor, longing, pain;
Go, leave me, thou unwelcome guest,
Nor trouble me again.

I longed for peace-for peace I cried;
You would not let her in;
No room was there for aught beside
The turmoil and the din.

I longed for rest, prayed life might yield
Soft joy and dear delight;
You urged me to the battlefield,
And flung me in the fight.

We two part company to-day.
Now, ere my strength be spent,
I open wide my doors and say:
'Begone, thou Discontent!'

Then something strong and sweet and fair
Rose up and made reply:
Who gave you the desire to dare
And do the right? 'Twas I.

The coward soul craves pleasant things,
Soft joys and dear delights-
I scourged you till you spread your wings
And soared to nobler heights.

You know me but imperfectly-
My surname is Divine;
God's own right hand did prison me
Within this soul of thine,

Lest thou, forgetting work and strife,
By human longings prest,
Shouldst miss the grandest things of life,
Its battles and unrest.

More verses by Jean Blewett