Matthew Arnold

In the deserted, moon-blanched street, How lonely rings the echo of my feet
Those windows, which I gaze at, frown, Silent and white, unopening down, Repellent as the world,--but see, A break between the housetops shows The moon
and lost ...

The sea is calm to-night
The tide is full, the moon lies
Upon the straits;—on the French coast the
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,

Mist clogs the sunshine
Smoky dwarf
Hem me round everywhere;
A vague

Come to me in my dreams, and
By day I shall be well again
For so the night will more than
The hopeless longing of the day

Foil'd by our fellow-men, depress'd, outworn,
We leave the brutal world to take its way,
And,
Patience

What is it to grow old
Is it to lose the glory of the form,
The lustre of the eye
Is it for beauty to forego her wreath

We cannot kindle when we
The fire which in the heart resides;
The spirit bloweth and is still,
In mystery our soul abides