 | The Finding of The Book and Other Poems |  |
41
DEATH OF MATTHEW ARNOLD
Weep, if ye have the power to weep,
All flowers of musical and odorous names
That haunt the woodland or the wave of Thames;
Weep, if ye have the power to weep,
Let sweet mists your quaint eyelids steep,
Fling incense from your many-colour'd flames.
All flowers of musical and odorous names
That haunt the woodland or the wave of Thames;
Weep, if ye have the power to weep,
Let sweet mists your quaint eyelids steep,
Fling incense from your many-colour'd flames.
Mourn, if ye have the power to mourn,
Glaciers and Alpine firs—ye too, sea-isles!
Divided now by a blue waste of miles,
In some far summer unforlorn,
Ere each was from the other torn,
Seen by your poet in primæval smiles.
Glaciers and Alpine firs—ye too, sea-isles!
Divided now by a blue waste of miles,
In some far summer unforlorn,
Ere each was from the other torn,
Seen by your poet in primæval smiles.
Spirits, if joy perforce must dwell
With you where Arnold's grace upon you breaks,
Goethe and all his golden-thoughted Greeks,—
If ye must hail such stranger well,
At least amidst your asphodel
Let roll in silver up your mystic creeks
With you where Arnold's grace upon you breaks,
Goethe and all his golden-thoughted Greeks,—
42
At least amidst your asphodel
Let roll in silver up your mystic creeks
Some rippled tidings of our woe,
Who miss the noble voice that sweetly sings,
The central rest through all disquietings,
The far-off light that crowneth so
The line of the eternal snow,
The beauty hidden in the heart of things.
Who miss the noble voice that sweetly sings,
The central rest through all disquietings,
The far-off light that crowneth so
The line of the eternal snow,
The beauty hidden in the heart of things.
And we in these cold April bowers,
Since Laleham's sod enwrapp'd his hands and feet,
Are poorer by a stately presence sweet,
And miss through all spring's wealth of flowers
Phrases that made them doubly ours,
Poet of meadows, stars, and Marguerite!
Since Laleham's sod enwrapp'd his hands and feet,
Are poorer by a stately presence sweet,
And miss through all spring's wealth of flowers
Phrases that made them doubly ours,
Poet of meadows, stars, and Marguerite!
Poet in our imperfect time
Of high completeness and of lucid ease—
Calm master touching song's superbest keys,
Magician of the subtler chime
That needs not fatal sweet of rhyme,
Having true Sophocléan cadences.
Of high completeness and of lucid ease—
Calm master touching song's superbest keys,
Magician of the subtler chime
That needs not fatal sweet of rhyme,
Having true Sophocléan cadences.
43
Poet of exquisite regret,
Of thoughts that aye upon Time's duller height
Out of the storm shall stand in stars of white,
Of perfect lines most purely set,
Each centred in an epithet
Touched with a pencil-tip of fadeless light.
Of thoughts that aye upon Time's duller height
Out of the storm shall stand in stars of white,
Of perfect lines most purely set,
Each centred in an epithet
Touched with a pencil-tip of fadeless light.
Surely to thee a lot doth fall,
With light and sweetness richly circled round;
Spinosa's rigid lines of wire unwound
No longer hold thee in their thrall—
Thou hast won liberty, and all
‘Sweet reasonableness’ in the Word hast found.
With light and sweetness richly circled round;
Spinosa's rigid lines of wire unwound
No longer hold thee in their thrall—
Thou hast won liberty, and all
‘Sweet reasonableness’ in the Word hast found.
Though we miss sore one Name divine,
Which wanting, so much else beside is miss'd,
No purer air our human brows e'er kissed
Than breathes out from each ice-pure line
In all those starlit songs of thine.
All virgin pages somewhere whisper—‘Christ!’
Which wanting, so much else beside is miss'd,
No purer air our human brows e'er kissed
Than breathes out from each ice-pure line
In all those starlit songs of thine.
All virgin pages somewhere whisper—‘Christ!’
| The Finding of The Book and Other Poems | |