Matthew Arnold

What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls
a butterfly.

What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls
a butterfly.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before read more

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain.

What is it to grow old?
Is it to lose the glory of the form,
The lustre read more

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?
Yes; but not this alone.

On Sundays, at the matin-chime,
The Alpine peasants, two and three,
Climb up here to pray;
read more

On Sundays, at the matin-chime,
The Alpine peasants, two and three,
Climb up here to pray;
Burghers and dames, at summer's prime,
Ride out to church from Chamberry,
Dight with mantles gay,
But else it is a lonely time
Round the Church of Brou.

Still bent to make some port he knows not where, still standing for some false impossible shore.

Still bent to make some port he knows not where, still standing for some false impossible shore.