Matthew Arnold

Youth dreams a bliss on this side of death.
It dreams a rest, if not more deep,
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Youth dreams a bliss on this side of death.
It dreams a rest, if not more deep,
More grateful than this marble sleep;
It hears a voice within it tell:
Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well.
'Tis all perhaps which man acquires,
But 'tis not what our youth desires.

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.

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

Wandering between two worlds, one dead,/ The other powerless to be born.

Wandering between two worlds, one dead,/ The other powerless to be born.

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.