The Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold

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T.Y. Crowell, 1897 - 502 pages

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Page 172 - Above the howling senses' ebb and flow, To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam, Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night ! Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home.
Page 428 - 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. Their faith, my tears, the world deride— I come to shed them at their side.
Page 213 - The sea is calm to-night. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; — on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Page 168 - We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl. Singing, "Here came a mortal, But faithless was she: And alone dwell for ever The kings of the sea.
Page 166 - When did music come this way ? Children dear, was it yesterday ? Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away ? Once she sate with you and me, On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, And the youngest sate on her knee. She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.
Page 2 - OTHERS abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask — Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge.
Page 214 - Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
Page 77 - Or else that the great Rustum would come down Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move His heart to take a gift, and let thee go; And then that all the Tartar host would praise Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, To glad thy father in his weak old age.
Page 414 - Havoc is made in our train! Friends, who set forth at our side, Falter, are lost in the storm. We, we only are left!
Page 391 - Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on, Soon will the musk carnations break and swell, Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon, Sweet-William with his homely cottage-smell, And stocks in fragrant blow; Roses that down the alleys shine afar, And open, jasmine-muffled lattices, And groups under the dreaming garden-trees, And the full moon, and the white evening-star.

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