Matthew Arnold

On one she smiles, and he was blest;
She smiles elsewhere--we make a din!
But 'twas not read more

On one she smiles, and he was blest;
She smiles elsewhere--we make a din!
But 'twas not love which heaved her breast,
Fair child!--it was the bliss within.

What then remains, but that we still should cry
Not to be born, or being born to die.

What then remains, but that we still should cry
Not to be born, or being born to die.

And see all sights from pole to pole
And glance, and nod, and bustle by,
And never read more

And see all sights from pole to pole
And glance, and nod, and bustle by,
And never once possess our soul
Before we die.

Strew on her roses, roses, / And never a spray of yew. / In quiet she reposes: / Ah! would read more

Strew on her roses, roses, / And never a spray of yew. / In quiet she reposes: / Ah! would that I did too!

Journalism is literature in a hurry.

Journalism is literature in a hurry.