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MATTHEW ARNOLD
There was a poet in him. But his artGrew too faint hearted to withstand the strain
And turmoil of the age. He sought to gain
Peace only; all the passion of his heart
He slew, that, a little space apart
For quiet of his soul he might attain;
And so the poet in him fell self-slain,
Sang its own swan-song and was not. O heart!
He has found a deeper peace than he pursued
And his worn eyes at last behold the ways
That open for man's limitless up-leaping;
And God's voice softly wakes his poethood
Anew, as the Master bent of old to raise
The dust that loved him, saying: “Not dead, but sleeping.”
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