Memorials of a Happy Time: The Complaint

I heard thee say that thou wert slow of speech;
Thou didst complain thy words could never reach
Thy height of thy conceptions. Ah! dear friend,
Envy thou not the eloquent their gift.
Fierce reckless acts and thoughts' unbridled range
And cherished passion that at times hath rocked
Their soul to its foundations, — these do lift
Them into eloquence: 'tis sad to spend
So great a price, to win so poor a dower.
Thine is a deep clear mind: nor inward change
Nor outward visitation yet hath shocked
Thy heart into a consciousness of power.
So calm and beautiful thou art within,
Thou scarce canst see how like power is to sin.