Separation

Stop Not to me, at this bitter departing,
Speak of the sure consolations of Time.
Fresh be the wound, still-renewd be its smarting,
So but thy image endure in its prime.

But, if the stedfast commandment of Nature
Wills that remembrance should always decay;
If the lovd form and the deep-cherishd feature
Must, when unseen, from the soul fade away

Me let no half-effacd memories cumber!
Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee
Deep be the darkness, and still be the slumber
Dead be the Past and its phantoms to me!

Then, when we meet, and thy look strays towards me,
Scanning my face and the changes wrought there,
Who, let me say, is this Stranger regards me,
With the grey eyes, and the lovely brown hair?

Matthew Arnold

Matthew Arnold was an English poet and cultural critic who worked as an inspector of schools. He is best remembered for his poetry, including works like 'Dover Beach,' and his influence on literary and social criticism. Arnold's work often grappled with the social issues and the loss of faith in the modern age, making him a central figure in the transition from Romanticism to Modernism in literature.

Matthew Arnold

Pis-Aller

Matthew Arnold, Simple Poetry

Richmond Hill

Matthew Arnold, Simple Poetry

Resignation

Matthew Arnold, Simple Poetry

The Church

Matthew Arnold, Simple Poetry

English

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Faded Leaves

I

THE RIVER

Still glides the stream, slow drops the boat
Under the rustling poplars shade;
Silent the swans beside us float
None speaks, none heeds, ah, turn thy head.

Let those arch eyes now softly shine,
That mocking mouth grow sweetly bland:
Ah, let them rest, those eyes, on mine;
On mine let rest that lovely hand.

My pent-up tears oppress my brain,
My heart is swoln with love unsaid:
Ah, let me weep, and tell my pain,
And on thy shoulder rest my head.

Before I die, before the soul,
Which now is mine, must re-attain
Immunity from my control,
And wander round the world again:

Before this teasd oerlabourd heart
For ever leaves its vain employ,
Dead to its deep habitual smart,
And dead to hopes o...

Matthew Arnold

Absence

In this fair strangers eyes of grey
Thine eyes, my love, I see.
I shudder: for the passing day
Had borne me far from thee.

This is the curse of life: that not
A nobler calmer train
Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot
Our passions from our brain;

But each day brings its petty dust
Our soon-chokd souls to fill,
And we forget because we must,
And not because we will.

I struggle towards the light; and ye,
Once-longd-for storms of love!
If with the light ye cannot be,
I bear that ye remove.

I struggle towards the light; but oh,
While yet the night is chill,
Upon Times barren, stormy flow,
Stay with me, Marguerite, still!

Matthew Arnold

To Marguerite

We were apart: yet, day by day,
I bade my heart more constant be;
I bade it keep the world away,
And grow a home for only thee:
Nor feard but thy love likewise grew,
Like mine, each day more tried, more true.

The fault was grave: I might have known,
What far too soon, alas, I learnd
The heart can bind itself alone,
And faith is often unreturnd.
Self-swayd our feelings ebb and swell:
Thou lovest no more: Farewell! Farewell!

Farewell! and thou, thou lonely heart,
Which never yet without remorse
Even for a moment didnt depart
From thy remote and spherèd course
To haunt the place where passions reign,
Back to thy solitude again!

Back, with the conscious thrill of shame
Which Luna felt, that summer night,
Flash through he...

Matthew Arnold

Obermann

In front the awful Alpine track
Crawls up its rocky stair;
The autumn storm-winds drive the rack
Close oer it, in the air.

Behind are the abandond baths
Mute in their meadows lone;
The leaves are on the valley paths;
The mists are on the Rhone,

The white mists rolling like a sea.
I hear the torrents roar.
Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee!
I feel thee near once more.

I turn thy leaves: I feel their breath
Once more upon me roll;
That air of languor, cold, and death,
Which brooded oer thy soul.

Fly hence, poor Wretch, whoeer thou art,
Condemnd to cast about,
All shipwreck in thy own weak heart,
For comfort from without:

A fever in these pages burns
Beneath the calm they feign;
A wounded human spir...

Matthew Arnold

A Farewell

My Horse's feet beside the lake,
Where sweet the unbroken moonbeams lay,
Sent echoes through the night to wake,
Each glistening strand, each heath-fringed bay.

The poplar avenue was passd,
And the roofed bridge that spans the stream,
Up the steep street I hurried fast,
Led by thy tapers starlike beam.

I came! I saw thee rise:, the blood
Poured flushing to thy languid cheek.
Locked in each others arms we stood,
In tears, with hearts too full to speak.

Days flew; ah, soon I could discern
A trouble in thine altered air.
Thy hand lay languidly in mine,
Thy cheek was grave, thy speech grew rare.

I blame thee not:, This heart, I know,
To be long lovd was never framd,
For something in its depths doth glow
Too strange, too r...

Matthew Arnold

To My Friends

Laugh, my Friends, and without blame
Lightly quit what lightly came:
Rich to-morrow as to-day
Spend as madly as you may.
I, with little land to stir,
Am the exacter labourer.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

But my Youth reminds me Thou
Hast livd light as these live now:
As these are, thou too wert such:
Much hast had, hast squanderd much.
Fortunes now less frequent heir,
Ah! I husband whats grown rare.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

Young, I said: A face is gone
If too hotly musd upon:
And our best impressions are
Those that do themselves repair.
Many a face I then let by,
Ah! is faded utterly.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

Matthew Arnold