Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, …
Matthew Arnold
I …
Far, far from here, …
Mist clogs the sunshine. …
The sea is calm tonight. …
What is it to grow old? …
Foil'd by our fellow-men, depress'd, outworn, …
We were apart; yet, day by day, …
In this lone, open glade I lie, …
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, …
We cannot kindle when we will …
"Not by the justice that my father spurn'd, …
Glion?—Ah, twenty years, it cuts …
Set where the upper streams of Simois flow …
Hark! ah, the nightingale— …
Strew on her roses, roses, …
Coldly, sadly descends …
Weary of myself, and sick of asking …
Others abide our question. Thou art free. …
AND the first grey of morning fill'd the east, …
Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused …
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, …
Come, dear children, let us away; …
A wanderer is man from his birth. …
Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill; …
How changed is here each spot man makes or fills! …
Yes! in the sea of life enisled, …
Even in a palace, life may be led well! …
'Tis death! and peace, indeed, is here, …