Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold. Arnold Matthew

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СКАЧАТЬ All frank faith which passion breeds—

       These we had, and we gave truly;

       Doubt not, what we had, we gave!

       False we were not, nor unruly;

       Lodgers in the forest and the cave.

      Long we wander'd with you, feeding

       Our rapt souls on your replies,

       In a wistful silence reading

       All the meaning of your eyes.

       By moss-border'd statues sitting,

       By well-heads, in summer days.

       But we turn, our eyes are flitting—

       See, the white east, and the morning rays!

      And you too, O worshipp'd Graces,

       Sylvan Gods of this fair shade!

       Is there doubt on divine faces?

       Are the blessed Gods dismay'd?

       Can men worship the wan features,

       The sunk eyes, the wailing tone,

       Of unsphered, discrowned creatures,

       Souls as little godlike as their own?

      Come, loose hands! The winged fleetness

       Of immortal feet is gone;

       And your scents have shed their sweetness,

       And your flowers are overblown.

       And your jewell'd gauds surrender

       Half their glories to the day;

       Freely did they flash their splendour,

       Freely gave it—but it dies away.

      In the pines the thrush is waking—

       Lo, yon orient hill in flames!

       Scores of true love knots are breaking

       At divorce which it proclaims.

       When the lamps are paled at morning,

       Heart quits heart and hand quits hand.

       Cold in that unlovely dawning,

       Loveless, rayless, joyless you shall stand!

      Pluck no more red roses, maidens,

       Leave the lilies in their dew—

       Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens,

       Dusk, oh, dusk the hall with yew!

       —Shall I seek, that I may scorn her,

       Her I loved at eventide?

       Shall I ask, what faded mourner

       Stands, at daybreak, weeping by my side?

       Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens!

       Dusk the hall with yew!

THE VOICE

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      As the kindling glances,

       Queen-like and clear,

       Which the bright moon lances

       From her tranquil sphere

       At the sleepless waters

       Of a lonely mere,

       On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully,

       Shiver and die.

      As the tears of sorrow

       Mothers have shed—

       Prayers that to-morrow

       Shall in vain be sped

       When the flower they flow for

       Lies frozen and dead—

       Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast,

       Bringing no rest.

      Like bright waves that fall

       With a lifelike motion

       On the lifeless margin of the sparkling Ocean;

       A wild rose climbing up a mouldering wall—

       A gush of sunbeams through a ruin'd hall—

       Strains of glad music at a funeral—

       So sad, and with so wild a start

       To this deep-sober'd heart,

       So anxiously and painfully,

       So drearily and doubtfully,

       And oh, with such intolerable change

Of thought, such contrast strange, O unforgotten voice, thy accents come, Like wanderers from the world's extremity, Unto their ancient home!

      In vain, all, all in vain,

       They beat upon mine ear again,

       Those melancholy tones so sweet and still.

       Those lute-like tones which in the bygone year

       Did steal into mine ear—

       Blew such a thrilling summons to my will,

       Yet could not shake it;

       Made my tost heart its very life-blood spill,

       Yet could not break it.

YOUTH'S AGITATIONS

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      When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence,

       From this poor present self which I am now;

       When youth has done its tedious vain expense

       Of passions that for ever ebb and flow;

      Shall I not joy youth's heats are left behind,

       And breathe more happy in an even clime?—

       Ah no, for then I shall СКАЧАТЬ