Matthew Arnold

What is it to grow old?
Is it to lose the glory of the form,
The lustre read more

What is it to grow old?
Is it to lose the glory of the form,
The lustre of the eye?
Is it for Beauty to forego her wreath?
Yes; but not this alone.

I met a preacher there I knew, and said,
Ill and overworked, how fare you in this scene?
read more

I met a preacher there I knew, and said,
Ill and overworked, how fare you in this scene?
Bravely! said he; for I of late have been
Much cheered with thoughts of Christ, the living bread.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before read more

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain.

Like driftwood spares which meet and pass
Upon the boundless ocean-plain,
So on the sea of life, read more

Like driftwood spares which meet and pass
Upon the boundless ocean-plain,
So on the sea of life, alas!
Man nears man, meets, and leaves again.

This strange disease of modern life, with its sick hurry, its divided aims.

This strange disease of modern life, with its sick hurry, its divided aims.