Matthew Arnold ( 10 of 61 )
Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows
Like the wave;
Change doth unknit the tranquil strength read more
Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows
Like the wave;
Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men.
Love tends life a little grace,
A few sad smiles; and then,
Both are laid in one cold place,
In the grave.
But each day brings from its pretty dust
Our soon choked souls to fill.
But each day brings from its pretty dust
Our soon choked souls to fill.
Six years--six little years--six drops of time.
Six years--six little years--six drops of time.
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.
Journalism is literature in a hurry.
Journalism is literature in a hurry.
And see all sights from pole to pole, / And glance, and nod, and bustle by; / And never once read more
And see all sights from pole to pole, / And glance, and nod, and bustle by; / And never once possess our soul / Before we die.
The Greek word euphuia, a finely tempered nature, gives exactly
the notion of perfection as culture brings us to read more
The Greek word euphuia, a finely tempered nature, gives exactly
the notion of perfection as culture brings us to perceive it; a
harmonious perfection, a perfection in which the characters of
beauty and intelligence are both present, which unites "the two
noblest of things"--as Swift . . . most happily calls them in his
Battle of the Books, "the two noblest of things, sweetness and
light."
It is - last stage of all When we are frozen up within, and quite The phantom of ourselves To read more
It is - last stage of all When we are frozen up within, and quite The phantom of ourselves To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost Which blamed the living man
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.
Strew on her roses, roses, / And never a spray of yew. / In quiet she reposes: / Ah! would read more
Strew on her roses, roses, / And never a spray of yew. / In quiet she reposes: / Ah! would that I did too!
