Matthew Arnold ( 10 of 61 )
Still bent to make some port he knows not where, still standing for some false impossible shore.
Still bent to make some port he knows not where, still standing for some false impossible shore.
The kings of modern thought are dumb.
The kings of modern thought are dumb.
If Paris that brief flight allow,
My humble tomb explore!
It bears: "Eternity, be thou
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If Paris that brief flight allow,
My humble tomb explore!
It bears: "Eternity, be thou
My refuge!" and no more.
Children of men! the unseen Power, whose eye
Forever doth accompany mankind,
Hath look'd on no religion read more
Children of men! the unseen Power, whose eye
Forever doth accompany mankind,
Hath look'd on no religion scornfully
That men did ever find.
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.
The pursuit of perfection, then, is the pursuit of sweetness and light.
The pursuit of perfection, then, is the pursuit of sweetness and light.
Youth dreams a bliss on this side of death.
It dreams a rest, if not more deep,
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Youth dreams a bliss on this side of death.
It dreams a rest, if not more deep,
More grateful than this marble sleep;
It hears a voice within it tell:
Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well.
'Tis all perhaps which man acquires,
But 'tis not what our youth desires.
On Sundays, at the matin-chime,
The Alpine peasants, two and three,
Climb up here to pray;
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On Sundays, at the matin-chime,
The Alpine peasants, two and three,
Climb up here to pray;
Burghers and dames, at summer's prime,
Ride out to church from Chamberry,
Dight with mantles gay,
But else it is a lonely time
Round the Church of Brou.
I met a preacher there I knew, and said,
Ill and overworked, how fare you in this scene?
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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.
Hark! ah, the nightingale--
The tawny-throated!
Hark from that moonlit cedar what a burst!
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Hark! ah, the nightingale--
The tawny-throated!
Hark from that moonlit cedar what a burst!
What triumph! hark!--what pain!
. . . .
Again--thou hearest?
Eternal passion!
Eternal pain!
