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.

Others abide our question. Thou art free.
We ask and ask--Thou smilest and art still,
Out-topping knowledge.

Others abide our question. Thou art free.
We ask and ask--Thou smilest and art still,
Out-topping knowledge.

Hark! ah, the nightingale--
The tawny-throated!
Hark from that moonlit cedar what a burst!
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Hark! ah, the nightingale--
The tawny-throated!
Hark from that moonlit cedar what a burst!
What triumph! hark!--what pain!
. . . .
Again--thou hearest?
Eternal passion!
Eternal pain!

Wandering between two worlds, one dead,
The other powerless to be born
With nowhere yet to rest read more

Wandering between two worlds, one dead,
The other powerless to be born
With nowhere yet to rest my head,
Like these, on earth I wait forlorn.

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.