"A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear // A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief // Which find no natural outlet, no relief // In word, or sigh, or tear." A really wonderful poem, to me quite reminiscent of 'Frost at midnight'; a person muses on life as the weather lives outside the window. It is beautiful, despairing in a very small way, almost depressed with the lack of wind, and as the wind picks up so does passion. There is bittersweetness, true sadness, and lucidity; when Coleridge talks of joy, and rejoicing one feels the conflicting strains of love and despair so emphatically. A beautiful poem.
Nature might be an amplifier of happy emotions, but humans truly feel happy only ehen psychologically, from within, they're happy first. Moving wonders of nature although are happy sights, they would trivial and meaningless who can't find joy in their hearts. A worse condition than being sad, is having no feeling at all. That's what Coleridge's feeling dejected about, his inability to feel, his loosing poetic talent and inspiration, his opium addiction, his unattainable lover.
Beautiful poem.
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul [to remain stoic]