Tennyson said, in a poem I read for the first time because I suspected from the first stanza it would suit my mood,
A still small voice spake unto me,
‘Thou art so full of misery,
Were it not better not to be?’Then to the still small voice I said;
‘Let me not cast in endless shade
What is so wonderfully made.’1
As I read the poem, I immediately thought of “Sorrow Is A Sage” by Strongarm:
I hear a small voice inside me say:
“Grace grows in winter.”
How I long to believe that it speaks the truth.2
Once again the Florida lyricists seem to have a tendency to employ phrases remarkably close to pieces of classic poetry.