Matthew Arnold

Matthew Arnold

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Matthew Arnold (24 December 1822 – 15 April 1888) was an English poet and cultural critic who worked as an inspector of schools. He was the son of Thomas Arnold, the celebrated headmaster of Rugby School, and brother to both Tom Arnold, literary professor, and William Delafield Arnold, novelist and colonial administrator.
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The Song of Callicles

GH the black, rushing smoke-bursts,        Thick breaks the red flame
All Etna heaves fiercely        Her forest-clothed frame
Not here,
O Apollo
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Thyrsis A Monody

How changed is here each spot man makes or fills
In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same; The village street its haunted mansion lacks, And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name, And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks— Are ye too cha...
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Mist clogs the sunshine
Smoky dwarf
Hem me round everywhere;
A vague
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To Marguerite continued

in the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
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The Forsaken Merman

Come, dear children, let us away;
Down and away below
Now my brothers call from the bay,
Now the great winds shoreward blow,
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The Church Of Brou

LE  Down the Savoy valleys sounding,  Echoing round this castle old,  'Mid the distant mountain-chalets  Hark
what bell for church is toll'd
In the bright October morning  Savoy's Duke had left his bride
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The Pagan World

In his cool hall, with haggard eyes,
The Roman noble lay;
He drove abroad, in furious guise,
Along the Appian way
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The Master stood upon the mount, and taught
He saw a fire in his disciples’ eyes; ‘The old law’, they said, ‘is wholly come to naught
Behold the new world rise
’ ‘Was it’, the Lord then said, ‘with scorn ye saw The old law observed ...
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Growing Old

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
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ah, the nightingale—The tawny-throated
Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst
What triumph
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Lines Written in Kensington Gardens

In this lone, open glade I lie,
Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand;
And at its end, to stay the eye,
Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand
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The Buried Life

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
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Sohrab and Rustum An Episode

And the first grey of morning fill'd the east, And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream
But all the Tartar camp along the stream Was hush'd, and still the men were plunged in sleep; Sohrab alone, he slept not; all night long He had lain wakefu...
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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
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Quiet Work

One lesson,
Nature, let me learn of thee,
One lesson which in every wind is blown,
One lesson of two duties kept at
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Saint Brandan

Saint Brandan sails the northern main;
The brotherhood of saints are glad
He greets them once, he sails again;
So late
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