Bernard Shaw - Flame

Flame

You kindled a flame in my heart,
It was weak at the very start.
Then it began to grow,
Now my whole being is aglow,
Each look from your sweet eyes.
Sends a flame up into the skies.
That tiny flame was just the start,
Now on fire is my whole heart.

Bernard Shaw - Field Fruits

Field Fruits

Barley, Oats, Wheat and Rye.
Four field fruits I hold very high.
Wheat for our bread and cakes,
and all of the delicacies that the Baker makes.
Barley is used for making Whisky,
Oats fed to a horse keep him frisky.
Then of course there is the Rye,
A useful poetic word that rhymes with eye,
Or sigh, or nigh, or by, not forgetting sky.
Oats of course for Porridge, salty and hot,
Without it the Scots would be in a spot.
Barley for the making of soups,
Nice and thick ladled with scoops.
Four Field Fruits I hold very high,
Barley Oats, Wheat and Rye.

Bernard Shaw - Fairies Call

Fairies Call

A thing that did me enthral,
Was an invitation to a Fairy Ball.
Pixies and Gnomes, Fairies and Elves,
All came to the ball dressed as themselves.
An orchestra of Leprechauns played a tune,
This all took place in the month of June.
Some were dancing while others ate a meal
I remember thinking that this was for real.
There was a banquet of delicious berries and fruits,
Served by Trolls dressed up in their very best suits.
To drink there was some Parsley wine,
Served in Golden Beakers that were so fine.
All in all it was a merry sight,
As pretty little Glow Worms lit up the starry night.
Then at the very crack of dawn,
I awoke in my bed with one big yawn.
I was pleased to have been invited to the Fairy Ball,
And I will listen again for the Fairies call.

Bernard Shaw - Evolution For Kids

Evolution For Kids

In the beginning Magma as in the broiling Sun,
Then the Cosmic explosion, the Planets had begun.
Fiery balls of Matter thrown into Space,
With nothing but Gravity to hold them in place.
The long cooling process of the outer shell,
Millions of years went by a very short spell.
Gasses composed of Hydrogen, Oxygen, and Carbon dioxide,
Not even a tiny Microbe had a place to hide.
Fierce storms of thunder and lightning bold,
Getting the Planet ready as the Crust turned cold.
Gasses mixed together H2O and Water was born,
Water that nothing on this Earth could scorn.
Vast Seas and Oceans evaporating to cause rain,
Another Cycle of life without which all would be in vain.
The Earth shuddered the beginning of the early Earthquakes,
Torrential rains continually forming huge inland Lakes.
Meteorites hit the newly forming Earth,
Bringing from Outer space Spores that promised birth.
Slowly over millions of years of chaotic force,
Amoeba and plankton developed in due course.
Millions more years went slowly by,
With the light of the Sun filling the Earthly Sky.
Ferns and Trees of wondrous shapes,
Covered the Earth with their varied green capes.
Life developed in the Oceans, Primitive indeed,
Each individual one carrying the Evolutionary seed.
Then the Amphibians ventured onto the dry land,
Early forms of Creatures did ever expand
The Apes in the trees were very prolific,
Some ventured onto the ground and that was terrific.
From primitive Apes to modern man,
One very short step in Natures bounteous plan.
Civilizations following one after another until this very day,
Homo Sapiens or modern Man has come here to stay.

Bernard Shaw - English Garden

English Garden

My love for an English garden,

It knows no bounds.

I will never have to ask for pardon,

As I stroll these lovely grounds.

Many are the shrubs, bushes and flowers,

They fill my heart with joy.

Here I have spent many happy hours,

For most of the flowers are shy and very coy.

Hollyhocks abound in every colour and hue,

Great delight I find in every nook and cranny.

A few of the flowers are for me new.

Most of the names I was taught by my dear Granny.



I have wandered around gardens of all kinds,

In most parts of this wonderful Earth.

There is something in a garden that my soul binds,

Nature shares with me every new birth.

But in an English garden such as Kew.

Gardeners put on a wonderful show.

That refreshes me through and through,

As I am sure it will you if you take the trouble to go.

Bernard Shaw - Eclipse.11 August 1999

Eclipse.11 August 1999

I watched the Sun slowly hiding its face.

It was in the year 'ninety-nine'.

The Moon had need for a little more space,

So she forbade the Sun to shine.

The animals lay asleep around on the ground,

Flowers their Petals and their colours, they did hide.

Birds were silent they made no sound,

For darkness had come to bide.

Mankind covered their eyes with blackened glass,

To view this Masterpiece in the skies,

The vision was really first class,

Wasn't that a lovely surprise.

It was a cheek for the Moon to cover the Sun,

Right in the middle of the day.

But being a female she had to have,

The last word so to say.

The Sun had patience and waited a while.

On the face of the Moon was rather a very large smile.

For every hundred years or so she tried hard the sun to beguile.

Bernard Shaw - Dragons

Dragons

Dragons flying on wings of green,
Coming to greet the Fairy Queen.
Invited they are one and all.
To the Fairies own Annual Ball.
Dragons Large and Dragons small.
All are flying to the Fairy’s Ball.
Families of Dragons have been invited.
Some of whom are most excited.
The Fairy Queen will greet them all.
And welcome them to the Fairy Ball.
Leprechauns are preparing dragon meals.
Pixies will serve the meals on wheels.
There will be hay, clover and shamrocks green.
A most special gift from the Fairy Queen.
The meal will be approved by the Trolls.
All will be dressed as Victorian Dolls.
To dance there will be a Fairy Band,
With Musicians all from Fairyland.
I will be the Master of Ceremonies,
This I know will the Dragons Please.
The party will last the night long,
Entertainers will accompany us with song.
Then punctually at the break of day.
All the Dragons will fly away.
I will go home to my large old house,
There I will tell my story to my Family Mouse.
Then I will go to my four-posted bed.
Where I will lay down my weary old head.
In the morning of the very next day.
This, my new poem will come your way.
There are many tales of dragons to tell.
For I am under the Fairy Queen’s spell.

Bernard Shaw - Do Not Grieve

Do Not Grieve

Do not grieve when I pass away,

Remember it is but another stop upon my way.

On my way to a better existence.

That has always beckoned me from a distance.

It is a threshold that we all must cross,

Know that my passing is not a loss.

I will ascend to a temple of learning,

That my soul has been forever yearning.

Knowledge I will gain that man does not know,

So do not grieve at this my funeral below.

Be cheerful at my open grave this day,

Send me off with good wishes that is all I pray.

Bernard Shaw - Dictionary

Dictionary

On my bookshelf there is a book,

When I am in doubt I take a look.

The other day I looked up the word schizophrenic,

A difficult word heard in a psychiatrist’s clinic.

I took my dictionary in my hand as I often do,

To search for a word that might give me a clue.

Then I found schizophrenic I was in a shock,

It nearly caused my old brain to block.

A split personality it was very clear,

It was a pity that no psychiatrist was near.

He or she could easily in words simple to understand,

Tell me that there are thousands of cases living in this land.

But no I had to use my dictionary to find out,

Am I schizophrenic I have a great doubt?

At the moment I am a person quite happy and clear,

Then my mood changes to one of great fear.

Is it me that writes poetry and verse?

Or is the other just being perverse.

My dictionary is full of knowledge you know,

Not being an expert I am terribly slow.

I would not be without this clever book,

When I am in doubt I just take a look.

Bernard Shaw - Derelict Mill

Derelict Mill

Over looking the valley all is still,

I see the remains of a derelict mill.

Tattered and torn her once proud sails,

For she has seen the most fearsome of gales.

Horses once plodded through the summers heat,

Pulling carts with sacks full of ripened wheat.

With a steady wind nearly every hour,

Appeared a full sack of finely ground flour.

But alas the Miller retired and moved away,

The mill is unoccupied to this very day.

The Baker in the village was called to war,

Another brave man that came back no more.

Now bread comes from a factory far away,

Deliveries every second or third day.

Yes the valley is very still,

Without the Miller and his windmill.

The bread is not that what it used to be,

So I make my own it is fresh you see.

I buy my flour from another mill,

Bake my bread and eat my fill.

Memories of the good old days,

Compensating for the times gone by,

I have had to change my ways,

For this I could truly cry.

Bernard Shaw - Derby And Joan

Derby And Joan

There they sit, day by day,

They do not talk, there is nothing to say.

Darby and Joan the eighties for bye.

Enjoying the Sun and the light blue sky.

They smile to each other a tender smile.

Theirs has been truly a life worth while.

Children give them a great delight.

They feed the birds, a wonderful sight.

Then one day they are no more there.

Gone forever in God's good care.

Memories dim others take there place.

Things seem to quicken at a much faster pace.

Soon I will sit with my lovely wife.

Darby and Joan as large as life.

We too will be slow and not have much to say.

But our love will live on, until one day.

Some-one will notice that we have gone away.

Away to a place where love will reign.

And we will be young and living again.

Bernard Shaw - Demonic Faces

Demonic Faces

Demonic faces glaring at me,
Grimaces from troubled souls.
Why do they come? What do they see?
With their eyes like burning coals.
Have I offended Lucifer’s Hordes?
That they swarm from deepest Hell.
How can I cut these binding cords?
How can I break this damning spell?
Are they figures from my overwrought brain?
That come to me in my weakest hour?
Is that what one calls nervous strain?
Which turn my gastric juices sour.
I have never done anyone physical harm,
I was always gentle to the weak
I have tried to live my life with charm,
Trouble was the last thing for me to seek
So why do those demonic faces glare at me?
A peaceful man all of my life.
Is it something that only they can see?
Which wants them to cause me so much strife.

Bernard Shaw - Dear Mother

Dear Mother

Dear Mother please make my bed,
Know that I have this pain in my head.
I have had it now for a number of days,
When moving around I am in a daze.

Dear Mother make me a soothing brew,
Of one of your teas that you do stew.
Perhaps it will settle the pain in my head,
And stop my vision from being blood red.

Dear Mother hold my hand tight,
See me through another long night.
In the morning gently awaken me,
With another cup of your freshly brewed tea.

Dear Mother lay me to rest,
In my suit that is of the best.
For the tea that you lovingly brew,
Has not helped me see the night through.

Dear Mother place flowers on my grave,
Do not sorrow that you could me not save.
Know that I am in a better place,
Since my tea you did with arsenic lace.

Bernard Shaw - Dawn Chorus

Dawn Chorus

I listened to the dawn chorus,
Birds were greeting the new day.
Were they singing praise to Horus,
As they had in Egypt’s ancient way.
Or were they glad to be alive,
As darkness turned to blessed light.
Feeding their fledglings so to thrive,
That they may too enjoy this thrilling sight.
Awakening to the early morning dew,
Feeling the warmth of the new sun.
A privilege granted to but a few,
For many the daylight do but shun.
I have listened to the bird’s greetings,
When all around was calm and still.
To me they were happy meetings,
That still gives me a tremendous thrill.

Bernard Shaw - Cursed Cop

Cursed Cop

So you cursed the cop that stopped you while speeding,

He spoiled your day with a monetary fine.

At an earlier accident he helped the causalities that were bleeding,

He got them all to a hospital just in time.

That Cop was doing his duty you know,

He has seen all kinds of crime and criminals too.

To be helpful at an accident he is not slow,

What’s more he has more than enough other work to do.

Family quarrels where violence prevails,

Faces of young children filled with fear.

I won’t go into the gory horrible details,

But it is that very same Cop that is called do you hear?

Rules are made by Governments and courts,

The Cop has to see that they are obeyed.

His is a job filled with dangers fraught,

He is always on the look out sometimes with nerves that are frayed.

So don’t curse the Cop that is obeying the law,

Be polite perhaps it is your life the next to be saved.

Give him credit for a job well done for sure,

An ordinary cop you are deep in his debt for you his life he braved.

Bernard Shaw - Cooking

Cooking

Once I fried a fish,

That was a tasty dish.

I tried my hand at meat,

It turned out a real treat.

I decided to be a cook,

And bought myself a book.

I mixed some ingredients for a cake,

Put it in the oven to bake.

It turned out really well,

I was under a magic spell.

I cooked some vegetables in a pot,

I served them piping hot.

My cooking was a great success

Alas my kitchen in a terrible mess.

Now my wife does the cooking,

Her meals are of the best.

She cooks with great zest.

The kitchen is again clean,

I feel somehow very mean.

Bernard Shaw - Completely Lost

Completely Lost

Have you ever had that feeling?
That you are completely lost.
Your mind and senses reeling,
As in a dark foreboding frost.
Nothing but nothing is as it seems,
Words like phantoms come and go.
It is as if all the bizarre dreams,
Have turned your brain to snow.
The ticking of the mantelpiece clock,
Cuts the silence like a knife.
Your mind is in a mysterious block,
You ask yourself is this my life.
Perhaps I am just getting old,
Brain and body gone to pot,
Where are the times that I was bold,
And my brain could solve every plot.

Bernard Shaw - Company Fifty Four

Company Fifty Four

Marching through the desert sands,
Was the Company Fifty-Four.
Here no green and pleasant lands.
Just the barren desert floor.
Full packs on our bent and tired backs,
A rifle and fixed bayonet at the ready.
The deadly fear of an Arab attack,
With nerves that were not too steady.
Bidons of water warm not fresh,
To quench an everlasting thirst.
We were caught in the Legions mesh,
Wondering who would die the first.
Mile after mile marching at the Legions pace,
Ammunition weighing us down.
The Sergeant Chef with a grim face,
Driving us on past the next town.
The Company Fifty-Four was to replace the dead and the dying,
Of a God forsaken fort in the middle of no-where.
A handful of survivors were on our Company relying,
Legionnaires some that by now did not any more care.
Onward we marched to the refrain of a Legion song,
Desperate with throats parched from the dust and the heat.
None of us in this land did belong,
We just followed our sore aching feet.
The fort came into sight the Tricolour still flying,
We had arrived in the nick of time.
We buried the dead and tended the dying.
Before we washed off the march's grime.
Sentries were placed at strategic points,
Machine guns brought into position.
We hasted to tend our aching joints,
And re-cursed the heavy ammunition.
Two days to build new defences and repair the fort,
Then the Arabs attacked yet once again.
With a new strength we somehow fought,
There was no time to take real aim.
Now there were Arabs dead and dying,
Brave men without a doubt.
This was honesty without lying.
As their warriors were slowly wiped out.

Bernard Shaw - Coconuts

Coconuts

Twenty coco nuts all in a row,
Painted with faces of people that I know.
A Politician right at the back,
He is no good; I would give him the sack.
Then the woman from over the way,
She is loud mouthed, with plenty to say.
A Teacher from long road school,
He is always calling some-one a fool.
Then the Policeman that grins as he books my car,
now that is a man that will go very far.
The hypocritical Vicar, Him a Godly man,
making a mess of the good Lord's plan.
The Dictators some old some new,
Making weird plans for me and you.
I do not like the coconuts or their faces;
I will blot them out to leave no traces.
In place of them, I will put myself;
See if you can knock me off of that shelf.

Bernard Shaw - Childish Memories

Childish Memories

It all comes back to me down the ages,
A child awake listening to the tick of a clock.
My troubled mind my fitful rages,
The sound of a key turning in a lock.
Twenty boys in a dormitory large,
Beds neatly arranged in rows.
A woman vicious and in charge,
Dealing out deftly savage blows.
Tears running silently down my cheeks,
No peace for an unhappy mind.
Terror that lasted unending weeks,
With never a word that was kind.
From the age of three until I was eight,
Violence ruled my unhappy days.
I was ever in a stage of hate,
With my mind turning in a terrible craze.
I was classified as a troublemaker,
Me a child mental grim and upset.
Some one to love me there was no taker,
I was not the young boy to pet.
At the age of nine war was declared,
I was evacuated to a peaceful town.
For a family life I was not prepared,
And my hatred let me once more down.
I was placed with families that were kind,
My upbringing had left me suspicious.
I could not regain my peace of mind,
So I remained a child quite vicious.
Then came the day that I was kindly received,
Made welcome in a family that was normal.
It was here that I finally perceived,
That love was something not formal.
I settled down at last my mind at rest,
I enjoyed the privilege of having a home.
Here in this family I gave of my best,
I had found that love is not just foam.

Bernard Shaw - Child Play

Child Play

I see the children as they play,
The games I know so well.
I watch with delight every day,
As I listen to voices sweet as a bell.

The cheerful cries fill me with joy,
Smiling faces tell all is good.
My heart goes out to every girl and boy,
And I would play with them if I could.

From my armchair I watch in leisure,
Happy faces out side my window frames,
Yes I am content to see such pleasure
And wish that I could join in their games.

The children take me back to the old days,
When I was young and filled with esprit.
Now I can only sit here and gaze,
Thanking Heaven that I can still hear and see.

Bernard Shaw - Broken Spirit

Broken Spirit

Only with you by my side,
Can I take all in my stride.
You give me a silent strength,
each pace a gathering length.
I know that I will reach my goal,
for you help me play my role.
Your guidance carries me along,
in my heart a wondering song.
What strange whim sent you my way,
I do not know, I cannot say.
I just thank Heaven that you are here,
Keeping me going with thoughts so clear.
Stay with me to the very end,
For you my broken spirit did mend.

Bernard Shaw - Blossoms

Blossoms

I see the fresh blossoms on the trees,
And know that spring is here at last.
This does my old heart please,
As it has done in the years gone past.
Soon fruit ripened in a warming sun,
Will be ours to pick and eat.
Nature has her work well done,
Where no human can compete.
Blowing rippling through the trees,
There plays a gentle summer breeze.
Telling us that all is well,
For spring has cast her magic spell.
Blossoms do the poet inspire,
His pen will write the rest.
Our hopes rise higher and higher,
As we are with blossoms blest.

Bernard Shaw - Baby Eyes

Baby Eyes

Large Baby eyes smiling joyfully at me,
Baby eyes as brown as can be.
Two deep pools most innocent and bright,
To me are symbols of sheer delight.
May I greet you every single day?
For you are sunshine on my way.
Other people see you smile so sweet,
All are happier when you they meet.
Eyes are the windows to the soul,
No difficulties for you reaching your goal.
So sweet baby go on life's way,
Those Baby eyes have much to say.

Bernard Shaw - Atomic Split

Atomic Split

What a terrible thing to do,
Man has split the atom in two.
For peaceful purposes so we are told,
Medical wonders to unfold.
Then came the war in thirty-nine,
Man committed a terrible crime.
He built a bomb, of course Atomic,
Man's love for man, is ironic.
Two Cities, Hiroshima and Nagasaki by name,
Were obliterated much to man's shame.
This was the war to end all wars.

What a terrible thing to do,
We have built a laser or two.
For peaceful purposes so we are told,
Medical wonders to unfold.
We now have nineteen hundred and eighty-five,
Are we lucky to be alive.
The next war will be in space,
What will become of the Human race.

What a terrible thing do to,
We have built a space ship or two.
For peaceful purposes so we are told,
Man's old dream will now unfold.
We have met some aliens from outer space,
What a terrible thing to do,
Now we have killed an alien or two.
Human Race let me say Adieu,
For now I know what will become of you.

Bernard Shaw - Back Kitchen

Back Kitchen

In my back kitchen all is quite still,
I have cooked my food and ate my fill.
Then the dishes in the sink had their say,
He always eats here but he does not pay.
The empty bottle of fresh brewed beer,
Said, 'He drained me dry without a tear.'
Then of course the mess he makes,
To cook a meal the time he takes.
Could he not eat in the restaurant next door?
They need the money because the Boss is poor.
The only thing that had nothing to say,
Was the frying pan it was not its day.
The knives and forks were filled with rage,
He is a messy eater he should act his age.
Picking out bits here and there indeed,
No wonder he takes so long to have his feed.
Have you ever listened to your kitchen tools?
Mine complain I am the king of fools.
They say I should go out to eat,
Order fresh vegetables with plenty of meat.
Not to come home and start to cook,
I should be relaxing with a good book.
They have no respect for me you know,
Just because I am old and getting slow.
I wash the pots and pans clean each day,
Then I carefully put them all away.
I think I will throw them away onto the rubbish heap,
Except for the sugar bowl that I will keep.

Bernard Shaw - Angels

Angels

I believe in Angels that guard me night and day,
One, my particular favourite has come with me to stay.
He has been with me for many a long year,
Helping me to be safe and live a life without fear.
I have not seen him but I know that he is there,
He looks after me with a constant loving care.
When I am on holiday by the ever-restless sea,
He takes me by the hand and just cares for me.
If I climb a mountain, he is by my side,
Steers me away from that dangerous mountain slide.
His guiding hands help me cross a busy street,
Tossing aside all dangers that I should perchance to meet.
When I go to bed and fall into a deep sleep,
He will with his powers all harm from me keep.
In the morning when I waken to a new day,
He will be there to guard me and help me on my way.
I have never thanked him for all his love and care,
Perhaps he will be happy if I send him a little prayer.
One day we will meet he and I face to face,
Then I can really thank him and all that guard the human race.

Bernard Shaw - Anamnesis

Anamnesis

A beacon sending a flash of light over the stormy sea,

Wind tossed foam upon my face, is this really me?

A lonely Gull rising on each gust of wind slicing the night air.

This experience my Love I will only with you share.

Once we were young, we kissed and hugged.

Feelings so tender we exchanged in those far off days.

Now my love my mind is blank as if in permanent haze.

Moments come through to me as you caress my face.

Hold me tight my precious one in another long embrace.

Bernard Shaw - AN EVENING OUT

AN EVENING OUT

I'll wear my Tails, You your new gown,

Then my love we'll do the town.

Dinner at Luigi's, Maxim's or Chez Nous,

The choice my Dear I'll leave up to you.

We'll eat of the best with lots of champagne,

For who knows when we I can afford it again.

I won on the races, it was not a lot,

A man gave me a tip on a very long shot.

The horse came in by a very short head,

I won't tell you what the bookmaker said.

Wear all of your jewels, you have not got many,

But at least we'll look posh as I spend my last penny.

Pay no attention if the waiter looks cross,

For once in my life, I'll be the boss.

And when we have eaten and I've paid the bill,

We will watch the waiter place the money in the till.

And if I can afford it we will do it again soon,

Now we will have to walk home by the light of the moon.

Bernard Shaw - A Poem A Day

A Poem A Day

I try to write one poem each day,
I never know what I will say.
Be it love for natures blossoms,
Perhaps, a tale about some possums.
Will it touch a chord in your heart?
Encourage you to make a new start!
It may be sad it may be funny
But I will not sell it not for money.
I might write about the Zoo,
Or even something not quite true.
Fantasy is with me a big plus,
No big deal to make a fuss.
My poem may even make you smile,
Then my writing it will have been worthwhile.
It could be a poem that is quite sad.
Would that be so really bad?
Yes I try to write a poem every day,
Hoping it will help you on your way.

Bernard Shaw - A New Start

A New Start

I have wiped the slate clean,
No more reminders from the past.
Memories of what I have been,
Have vanished at long last.
I look forward to my future new,
Where all is territory strange.
Soon I will be among the few,
That plans their life at long range.
I see my life laid out at my feet,
New friends shall rally at my call.
They will be the first I will greet,
At this my welcoming ball.
Soon all memories will depart,
Of a past left well behind.
I will get off to a new start,
With the best of mankind.

Bernard Shaw - A Name

A Name

Shakespeare once wrote what is in a name,
Was he I wonder thinking of everlasting fame?
A man of words, beautiful to the ear,
His, an eloquence for all to hear.
Tales of Kings and royal Queens,
Even of commoners and bawdy scenes.
A man blessed with the gift and might of the pen,
His stories are filled with deeds of daring men.
Tales of love, Intrigue and yes death.
Leave us gasping or holding our breath.
He wrote of the beauty of a single rose.
That smelled so sweet when held to the nose.
He wrote about the rich and the poor,
None of his works was ever a bore.
So now I ask what is in a name,
Certainly for Shakespeare it brought great fame.

Bernard Shaw - A Cross At The Front

A Cross At The Front

With a cross at the front they march along,
Are you ready to join this happy throng?
Their only weapons the Bible and a book of prayer.
Which all are happy with you to share.
Their rallying call, ”Praise be to the Lord.”
None are conscripted they come of their own accord.
Happy faces filled with spiritual grace,
Be honest could you stand the pace?
No rewards or riches on this our earth,
Just the sure knowledge of a heavenly rebirth.
Bringing peace and goodwill to one and all,
Open your ears hear their rallying call.
Join this happy marching throng,
Then you too will know where you belong.
A state of happiness and peace will prevail,
When you the name of Jesus do hail.

Bernard Shaw - A Dream

A Dream

My spirits soar on high,
Inebriated with thoughts so pure.
I now can fly,
Nothing is obscure.
Spiritual healing is taking place,
As I rise to heavens realms.
Beams of joy cover my face,
Nothing can me overwhelm.
I have seen the heavens gates,
Beautiful light paves the way,
Music sweet to soul and ear,
I have nothing more to say.

Matthew Arnold - Youth and Calm

Youth and Calm

'Tis death! and peace, indeed, is here,
And ease from shame, and rest from fear.
There's nothing can dismarble now
The smoothness of that limpid brow.
But is a calm like this, in truth,
The crowning end of life and youth,
And when this boon rewards the dead,
Are all debts paid, has all been said?
And is the heart of youth so light,
Its step so firm, its eye so bright,
Because on its hot brow there blows
A wind of promise and repose
From the far grave, to which it goes;
Because it hath the hope to come,
One day, to harbour in the tomb?
Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one
For daylight, for the cheerful sun,
For feeling nerves and living breath--
Youth dreams a bliss on this side 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.

Bernard Shaw - Aged

Aged

The fire in the fireplace is low,
Burnt the wood and coal to ash.
You do not seem to miss the glow,
Your old face in darkness just a splash.
The spark has gone from your eyes,
No movement from your breast.
It came to me as no surprise,
That you have gone to your last rest.
Ninety years ago you were born,
You lived life to the very full.
Your body now old and worn,
No more the strength of a bull.
The family will come and say goodbye,
A funeral where prayers will be said
All will say you were a swell Guy,
And it is a pity that you are dead.
Only I will know the truth,
That you were gentle and wise,
You may have been old in the tooth,
This you managed to disguise,
When all the others are left,
From this sad house of mourning.
I will for one feel the cleft,
As I wait for the new day's dawning.

Matthew Arnold - Worldly Place

Worldly Place

Even in a palace, life may be led well!
So spake the imperial sage, purest of men,
Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den
Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,

Our freedom for a little bread we sell,
And drudge under some foolish master's ken
Who rates us if we peer outside our pen--
Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell?

Even in a palace! On his truth sincere,
Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came;
And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame

Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win,
I'll stop, and say: 'There were no succour here!
The aids to noble life are all within.'

Matthew Arnold - West London

West London

Crouch'd on the pavement close by Belgrave Square
A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied;
A babe was in her arms, and at her side
A girl; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare.
Some labouring men, whose work lay somewhere there,
Pass'd opposite; she touch'd her girl, who hied
Across, and begg'd and came back satisfied.
The rich she had let pass with frozen stare.
Thought I: Above her state this spirit towers;
She will not ask of aliens, but of friends,
Of sharers in a common human fate.
She turns from that cold succour, which attneds
The unknown little from the unknowing great,
And points us to a better time than ours.

Matthew Arnold - To Marguerite: Continued

To Marguerite: Continued

Yes! in the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.

But when the moon their hollows lights,
And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour--

Oh! then a longing like despair
Is to their farthest caverns sent;
For surely once, they feel, we were
Parts of a single continent!
Now round us spreads the watery plain--
Oh might our marges meet again!

Who order'd, that their longing's fire
Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd?
Who renters vain their deep desire?--
A God, a God their severance ruled!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea.

Matthew Arnold - To a Republican Friend

To a Republican Friend

God knows it, I am with you. If to prize
Those virtues, priz'd and practis'd by too few,
But priz'd, but lov'd, but eminent in you,
Man's fundamental life: if to despise
The barren optimistic sophistries
Of comfortable moles, whom what they do
Teaches the limit of the just and true--
And for such doing have no need of eyes:
If sadness at teh long heart-wasting show
Wherein earth's great ones are disquieted:
If thoughts, not idle, while before me flow
The armies of the homeless and unfed:--
If these are yours, if this is what you are,
Then am I yours, and what you feel, I share.

Matthew Arnold - To a Friend

To a Friend

Who prop, thou ask'st in these bad days, my mind?--
He much, the old man, who, clearest-souled of men,
Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,
And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind.

Much he, whose friendship I not long since won,
That halting slave, who in Nicopolis
Taught Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal son
Cleared Rome of what most shamed him. But be his

My special thanks, whose even-balanced soul,
From first youth tested up to extreme old age,
Business could not make dull, nor passion wild;

Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole;
The mellow glory of the Attic stage,
Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child.

Matthew Arnold - Thyrsis a Monody

Thyrsis a Monody

How changed is here each spot man makes or fills!
In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same;
The village street its haunted mansion lacks,
And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name,
And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks--
Are ye too changed, ye hills?
See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men
To-night from Oxford up your pathway strays!
Here came I often, often, in old days--
Thyrsis and I; we still had Thyrsis then.

Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm,
Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns
The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames?
The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs,
The Vale, the three lone weirs, the youthful Thames?--
This winter-eve is warm,
Humid the air! leafless, yet soft as spring,
The tender purple spray on copse and briers!
And that sweet city with her dreaming spires,
She needs not June for beauty's heightening,

Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night!--
Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power
Befalls me wandering through this upland dim.
Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour;
Now seldom come I, since I came with him.
That single elm-tree bright
Against the west--I miss it! is it goner?
We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said,
Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead;
While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on.

Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here,
But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick;
And with the country-folk acquaintance made
By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick.
Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first assay'd.
Ah me! this many a year
My pipe is lost, my shepherd's holiday!
Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart
Into the world and wave of men depart;
But Thyrsis of his own will went away.

It irk'd him to be here, he could not rest.
He loved each simple joy the country yields,
He loved his mates; but yet he could not keep,
For that a shadow lour'd on the fields,
Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep.
Some life of men unblest
He knew, which made him droop, and fill'd his head.
He went; his piping took a troubled sound
Of storms that rage outside our happy ground;
He could not wait their passing, he is dead.

So, some tempestuous morn in early June,
When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er,
Before the roses and the longest day--
When garden-walks and all the grassy floor
With blossoms red and white of fallen May
And chestnut-flowers are strewn--
So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry,
From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees,
Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze:
The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I!

Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go?
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.

He hearkens not! light comer, he is flown!
What matters it? next year he will return,
And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days,
With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern,
And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways,
And scent of hay new-mown.
But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see;
See him come back, and cut a smoother reed,
And blow a strain the world at last shall heed--
For Time, not Corydon, hath conquer'd thee!

Alack, for Corydon no rival now!--
But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate,
Some good survivor with his flute would go,
Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate;
And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow,
And relax Pluto's brow,
And make leap up with joy the beauteous head
Of Proserpine, among whose crowned hair
Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian air,
And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead.

O easy access to the hearer's grace
When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine!
For she herself had trod Sicilian fields,
She knew the Dorian water's gush divine,
She knew each lily white which Enna yields
Each rose with blushing face;
She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain.
But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard!
Her foot the Cumner cowslips never stirr'd;
And we should tease her with our plaint in vain!

Well! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be,
Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour
In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill!
Who, if not I, for questing here hath power?
I know the wood which hides the daffodil,
I know the Fyfield tree,
I know what white, what purple fritillaries
The grassy harvest of the river-fields,
Above by Ensham, down by Sandford, yields,
And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries;

I know these slopes; who knows them if not I?--
But many a tingle on the loved hillside,
With thorns once studded, old, white-blossom'd trees,
Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descried
High tower'd the spikes of purple orchises,
Hath since our day put by
The coronals of that forgotten time;
Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy's team,
And only in the hidden brookside gleam
Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime.

Where is the girl, who by the boatman's door,
Above the locks, above the boating throng,
Unmoor'd our skiff when through the Wytham flats,
Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among
And darting swallows and light water-gnats,
We track'd the shy Thames shore?
Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell
Of our boat passing heaved the river-grass,
Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass?--
They all are gone, and thou art gone as well!

Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the night
In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade.
I see her veil draw soft across the day,
I feel her slowly chilling breath invade
The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with Hrey;
I feel her finger light
Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train; --
The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew,
The heart less bounding at emotion new,
And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again.

And long the way appears, which seem'd so short
To the less practised eye of sanguine youth;
And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air,
The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth,
Tops in life's morning-sun so bright and bare!
Unbreachable the fort
Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall;
And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows,
And near and real the charm of thy repose,
And night as welcome as a friend would fall.

But hush! the upland hath a sudden loss
Of quiet!--Look, adown the dusk hill-side,
A troop of Oxford hunters going home,
As in old days, jovial and talking, ride!
From hunting with the Berkshire hounds they come.
Quick! let me fly, and cross
Into yon farther field!--'Tis done; and see,
Back'd by the sunset, which doth glorify
The orange and pale violet evening-sky,
Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree! the Tree!

I take the omen! Eve lets down her veil,
The white fog creeps from bush to bush about,
The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright,
And in the scatter'd farms the lights come out.
I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night,
Yet, happy omen, hail!
Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale
(For there thine earth forgetting eyelids keep
The morningless and unawakening sleep
Under the flowery oleanders pale),

Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there!--
Ah, vain! These English fields, this upland dim,
These brambles pale with mist engarlanded,
That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him;
To a boon southern country he is fled,
And now in happier air,
Wandering with the great Mother's train divine
(And purer or more subtle soul than thee,
I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see)
Within a folding of the Apennine,

Thou hearest the immortal chants of old!--
Putting his sickle to the perilous grain
In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king,
For thee the Lityerses-song again
Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing;
Sings his Sicilian fold,
His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes--
And how a call celestial round him rang,
And heavenward from the fountain-brink he sprang,
And all the marvel of the golden skies.

There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here
Sole in these fields! yet will I not despair.
Despair I will not, while I yet descry
'Neath the mild canopy of English air
That lonely tree against the western sky.
Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear,
Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee!
Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the hay,
Woods with anemonies in flower till May,
Know him a wanderer still; then why not me?

A fugitive and gracious light he seeks,
Shy to illumine; and I seek it too.
This does not come with houses or with gold,
With place, with honour, and a flattering crew;
'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold--
But the smooth-slipping weeks
Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired;
Out of the heed of mortals he is gone,
He wends unfollow'd, he must house alone;
Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired.

Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound;
Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour!
Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest,
If men esteem'd thee feeble, gave thee power,
If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest.
And this rude Cumner ground,
Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields,
Here cams't thou in thy jocund youthful time,
Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime!
And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields.

What though the music of thy rustic flute
Kept not for long its happy, country tone;
Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note
Of men contention-tost, of men who groan,
Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat--
It fail'd, and thou wage mute!
Yet hadst thou always visions of our light,
And long with men of care thou couldst not stay,
And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way,
Left human haunt, and on alone till night.

Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here!
'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore,
Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home.
--Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying roar,
Let in thy voice a whisper often come,
To chase fatigue and fear:
Why faintest thou! I wander'd till I died.
Roam on! The light we sought is shining still.
Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns the hill,
Our Scholar travels yet the loved hill-side.

Matthew Arnold - The Voice

The Voice

As the kindling glances,
Queen-like and clear,
Which the bright moon lances
From her tranquil sphere
At the sleepless waters
Of a lonely mere,
On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully,
Shiver and die.

As the tears of sorrow
Mothers have shed -
Prayers that tomorrow
Shall in vain be sped
When the flower they flow for
Lies frozen and dead -
Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast,
Bringing no rest.

Like bright waves that fall
With a lifelike motion
On the lifeless margin of the sparkling Ocean;
A wild rose climbing up a mouldering wall -
A gush of sunbeams through a ruined hall -
Strains of glad music at a funeral -
So sad, and with so wild a start
To this deep-sobered heart,
So anxiously and painfully,
So drearily and doubtfully,
And oh, with such intolerable change
Of thought, such contrast strange,
O unforgotten voice, thy accents come,
Like wanderers from the world's extremity,
Unto their ancient home!

In vain, all, all in vain,
They beat upon mine ear again,
Those melancholy tones so sweet and still.
Those lute-like tones which in the bygone year
Did steal into mine ear -
Blew such a thrilling summons to my will,
Yet could not shake it;
Made my tost heart its very life-blood spill,
Yet could not break it.

Matthew Arnold - The Song Of Empedocles

The Song Of Empedocles

And you, ye stars,
Who slowly begin to marshal,
As of old, in the fields of heaven,
Your distant, melancholy lines!
Have you, too, survived yourselves?
Are you, too, what I fear to become?
You, too, once lived;
You too moved joyfully
Among august companions,
In an older world, peopled by Gods,
In a mightier order,
The radiant, rejoicing, intelligent Sons of Heaven.
But now, ye kindle
Your lonely, cold-shining lights,
Unwilling lingerers
In the heavenly wilderness,
For a younger, ignoble world;
And renew, by necessity,
Night after night your courses,
In echoing, unneared silence,
Above a race you know not—
Uncaring and undelighted,
Without friend and without home;
Weary like us, though not
Weary with our weariness.

Matthew Arnold - The Song of Callicles

The Song of Callicles

THROUGH the black, rushing smoke-bursts,
Thick breaks the red flame.
All Etna heaves fiercely
Her forest-clothed frame.

Not here, O Apollo!
Are haunts meet for thee.
But, where Helicon breaks down
In cliff to the sea.

Where the moon-silver'd inlets
Send far their light voice
Up the still vale of Thisbe,
O speed, and rejoice!

On the sward at the cliff-top,
Lie strewn the white flocks;
On the cliff-side, the pigeons
Roost deep in the rocks.

In the moonlight the shepherds,
Soft lull'd by the rills,
Lie wrapt in their blankets,
Asleep on the hills.

—What forms are these coming
So white through the gloom?
What garments out-glistening
The gold-flower'd broom?

What sweet-breathing Presence
Out-perfumes the thyme?
What voices enrapture
The night's balmy prime?—

'Tis Apollo comes leading
His choir, The Nine.
—The Leader is fairest,
But all are divine.

They are lost in the hollows.
They stream up again.
What seeks on this mountain
The glorified train?—

They bathe on this mountain,
In the spring by their road.
Then on to Olympus,
Their endless abode.

—Whose praise do they mention:
Of what is it told?—
What will be for ever.
What was from of old.

First hymn they the Father
Of all things: and then,
The rest of Immortals,
The action of men.

The Day in his hotness,
The strife with the palm;
The Night in her silence,
The Stars in their calm.

Matthew Arnold - The Scholar Gypsy

The Scholar Gypsy

Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill;
Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes!
No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed,
Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats,
Nor the cropped herbage shoot another head.
But when the fields are still,
And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest,
And only the white sheep are sometimes seen
Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanched green,
Come, shepherd, and again begin the quest!

Here, where the reaper was at work of late—
In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves
His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruse,
And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves,
Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use—
Here will I sit and wait,
While to my ear from uplands far away
The bleating of the folded flocks is borne,
With distant cries of reapers in the corn—
All the live murmur of a summer's day.

Screened is this nook o'er the high, half-reaped field,
And here till sundown, shepherd! will I be.
Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep,
And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see
Pale pink convolvulus in tendrils creep;
And air-swept lindens yield
Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers
Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid,
And bower me from the August sun with shade;
And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers.

And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book—
Come, let me read the oft-read tale again!
The story of the Oxford scholar poor,
Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain,
Who, tired of knocking at preferment's door,
One summer-morn forsook
His friends, and went to learn the gypsy-lore,
And roamed the world with that wild brotherhood,
And came, as most men deemed, to little good,
But came to Oxford and his friends no more.

But once, years after, in the country lanes,
Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew,
Met him, and of his way of life enquired;
Whereat he answered, that the gypsy-crew,
His mates, had arts to rule as they desired
The workings of men's brains,
And they can bind them to what thoughts they will.
"And I," he said, "the secret of their art,
When fully learned, will to the world impart;

But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill."

This said, he left them, and returned no more.—
But rumours hung about the countryside,
That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray,
Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied,
In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey,
The same the gypsies wore.
Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring;
At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors,
On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frocked boors
Had found him seated at their entering,

But, 'mid their drink and clatter, he would fly.
And I myself seem half to know thy looks,
And put the shepherds, wanderer! on thy trace;
And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks
I ask if thou hast passed their quiet place;

Or in my boat I lie
Moored to the cool bank in the summer-heats,
'Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills,
And watch the warm, green-muffled Cumner hills,
And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats.

For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground!
Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe,
Returning home on summer-nights, have met
Crossing the stripling Thames at Bablock-hithe,
Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet,
As the punt's rope chops round;
And leaning backward in a pensive dream,
And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers
Plucked in the shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers,
And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream.

And then they land, and thou art seen no more!—
Maidens, who from the distant hamlets come
To dance around the Fyfield elm in May,
Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam,
Or cross a stile into the public way.
Oft thou hast given them store
Of flowers—the frail-leafed white anemony,
Dark bluebells drenched with dews of summer eves,
And purple orchises with spotted leaves—
But none hath words she can report of thee.

And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time's here
In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames,
Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass
Where black-winged swallows haunt the glittering Thames,
To bathe in the abandoned lasher pass,
Have often passed thee near
Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown;
Marked thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare,
Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air—
But, when they came from bathing, thou wast gone!

At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills,
Where at her open door the housewife darns,
Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate
To watch the threshers in the mossy barns.
Children, who early range these slopes and late
For cresses from the rills,
Have known thee eyeing, all an April-day,
The springing pastures and the feeding kine;
And marked thee, when the stars come out and shine,
Through the long dewy grass move slow away.

In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood—
Where most the gypsies by the turf-edged way
Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see
With scarlet patches tagged and shreds of grey,
Above the forest-ground called Thessaly—
The blackbird, picking food,
Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all;
So often has he known thee past him stray,
Rapt, twirling in thy hand a withered spray,
And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall.

And once, in winter, on the causeway chill
Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go,
Have I not passed thee on the wooden bridge,
Wrapped in thy cloak and battling with the snow,
Thy face tow'rd Hinksey and its wintry ridge?
And thou hast climbed the hill,
And gained the white brow of the Cumner range;
Turned once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall,
The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall—
Then sought thy straw in some sequestered grange.


But what—I dream! Two hundred years are flown
Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls,
And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe
That thou wert wandered from the studious walls
To learn strange arts, and join a gypsy-tribe;
And thou from earth art gone
Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid—
Some country-nook, where o'er thy unknown grave
Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave,
Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree's shade.

- No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours!
For what wears out the life of mortal men?
'Tis that from change to change their being rolls;
'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again,
Exhaust the energy of strongest souls
And numb the elastic powers.
Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen,
And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit,
To the just-pausing Genius we remit
Our worn-out life, and are—what we have been.

Thou hast not lived, why shouldst thou perish, so?
Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire;
Else wert thou long since numbered with the dead!
Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire!
The generations of thy peers are fled,
And we ourselves shall go;
But thou possessest an immortal lot,
And we imagine thee exempt from age
And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page,
Because thou hadst—what we, alas! have not.

For early didst thou leave the world, with powers
Fresh, undiverted to the world without,
Firm to their mark, not spent on other things;
Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt,
Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings.
O life unlike to ours!
Who fluctuate idly without term or scope,
Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives,
And each half lives a hundred different lives;
Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope.

Thou waitest for the spark from heaven! and we,
Light half-believers of our casual creeds,
Who never deeply felt, nor clearly willed,
Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds,
Whose vague resolves never have been fulfilled;
For whom each year we see
Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new;
Who hesitate and falter life away,
And lose tomorrow the ground won today—
Ah! do not we, wanderer! await it too?

Yes, we await it!—but it still delays,
And then we suffer! and amongst us one,
Who most has suffered, takes dejectedly
His seat upon the intellectual throne;
And all his store of sad experience he
Lays bare of wretched days;
Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs,
And how the dying spark of hope was fed,
And how the breast was soothed, and how the head,
And all his hourly varied anodynes.

This for our wisest! and we others pine,
And wish the long unhappy dream would end,
And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear;
With close-lipped patience for our only friend,
Sad patience, too near neighbour to despair—
But none has hope like thine!
Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray,
Roaming the countryside, a truant boy,
Nursing thy project in unclouded joy,
And every doubt long blown by time away.

O born in days when wits were fresh and clear,
And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames;
Before this strange disease of modern life,
With its sick hurry, its divided aims,
Its heads o'ertaxed, its palsied hearts, was rife—
Fly hence, our contact fear!
Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood!
Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern
From her false friend's approach in Hades turn,
Wave us away, and keep thy solitude!

Still nursing the unconquerable hope,
Still clutching the inviolable shade,
With a free, onward impulse brushing through,
By night, the silvered branches of the glade—
Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue,
On some mild pastoral slope
Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales
Freshen thy flowers as in former years
With dew, or listen with enchanted ears,
From the dark dingles, to the nightingales!

But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly!
For strong the infection of out mental strife,
Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest;
And we should win thee from thy own fair life,
Like us distracted, and like us unblest.
Soon, soon thy cheer would die,
Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfixed thy powers,
Adn thy clear aims be cross and shifting made;
And then thy glad perennial youth would fade,
Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours.

Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!
- As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea,
Descried at sunrise and emerging prow
Lifting the cool-haired creepers stealthily,
The fringes of a southward-facing brow
Among the Aegaean isles;
And saw the merry Grecian coaster come,
Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine,
Green, bursting figs, and tunnies steeped in brine—
And knew the intruders on his ancient home,

The young light-hearted masters of the waves—
And snatched his rudder, and shook out more sail;
And day and night held on indignantly
O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale,
Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily,
To where the Atlantic raves
Outside the western straits; and unbent sails
There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,
Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come;
And on the beach undid his corded bales.

Matthew Arnold - The Pagan World

The Pagan World

In his cool hall, with haggard eyes,
The Roman noble lay;
He drove abroad, in furious guise,
Along the Appian way.

He made a feast, drank fierce and fast,
And crowned his hair with flowers -
No easier nor no quicker passed
The impracticable hours.

The brooding East with awe beheld
Her impious younger world.
The Roman tempest swelled and swelled,
And on her head was hurled.

The East bowed low before the blast
In patient, deep disdain;
She let the legions thunder past,
And plunged in thought again.

So well she mused, a morning broke
Across her spirit grey;
A conquering, new-born joy awoke,
And filled her life with day.

"Poor world," she cried, "so deep accurst
That runn'st from pole to pole
To seek a draught to slake thy thirst -
Go, seek it in thy soul!"

She heard it, the victorious West,
In crown and sword arrayed!
She felt the void which mined her breast,
She shivered and obeyed.

She veiled her eagles, snapped her sword,
And laid her sceptre down;
Her stately purple she abhorred,
And her imperial crown.

She broke her flutes, she stopped her sports,
Her artists could not please;
She tore her books, she shut her courts,
She fled her palaces;

Lust of the eye and pride of life
She left it all behind,
And hurried, torn with inward strife,
The wilderness to find.

Tears washed the trouble from her face!
She changed into a child!
Mid weeds and wrecks she stood -a place
Of ruin -but she smiled!

Matthew Arnold - The Last Word

The Last Word

Creep into thy narrow bed,
Creep, and let no more be said!
Vain thy onset! all stands fast.
Thou thyself must break at last.

Let the long contention cease!
Geese are swans, and swans are geese.
Let them have it how they will!
Thou art tired: best be still.

They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore thee?
Better men fared thus before thee;
Fired their ringing shot and passed,
Hotly charged - and sank at last.

Charge once more, then, and be dumb!
Let the victors, when they come,
When the forts of folly fall,
Find thy body by the wall!

Matthew Arnold - The Future

The Future

A wanderer is man from his birth.
He was born in a ship
On the breast of the river of Time;
Brimming with wonder and joy
He spreads out his arms to the light,
Rivets his gaze on the banks of the stream.

As what he sees is, so have his thoughts been.
Whether he wakes,
Where the snowy mountainous pass,
Echoing the screams of the eagles,
Hems in its gorges the bed
Of the new-born clear-flowing stream;
Whether he first sees light
Where the river in gleaming rings
Sluggishly winds through the plain;
Whether in sound of the swallowing sea--
As is the world on the banks,
So is the mind of the man.

Vainly does each, as he glides,
Fable and dream
Of the lands which the river of Time
Had left ere he woke on its breast,
Or shall reach when his eyes have been closed.
Only the tract where he sails
He wots of; only the thoughts,
Raised by the objects he passes, are his.

Who can see the green earth any more
As she was by the sources of Time?
Who imagines her fields as they lay
In the sunshine, unworn by the plough?
Who thinks as they thought,
The tribes who then roam'd on her breast,
Her vigorous, primitive sons?

What girl
Now reads in her bosom as clear
As Rebekah read, when she sate
At eve by the palm-shaded well?
Who guards in her breast
As deep, as pellucid a spring
Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure?

What bard,
At the height of his vision, can deem
Of God, of the world, of the soul,
With a plainness as near,
As flashing as Moses felt
When he lay in the night by his flock
On the starlit Arabian waste?
Can rise and obey
The beck of the Spirit like him?

This tract which the river of Time
Now flows through with us, is the plain.
Gone is the calm of its earlier shore.
Border'd by cities and hoarse
With a thousand cries is its stream.
And we on its breast, our minds
Are confused as the cries which we hear,
Changing and shot as the sights which we see.

And we say that repose has fled
For ever the course of the river of Time.
That cities will crowd to its edge
In a blacker, incessanter line;
That the din will be more on its banks,
Denser the trade on its stream,
Flatter the plain where it flows,
Fiercer the sun overhead.
That never will those on its breast
See an ennobling sight,
Drink of the feeling of quiet again.

But what was before us we know not,
And we know not what shall succeed.

Haply, the river of Time--
As it grows, as the towns on its marge
Fling their wavering lights
On a wider, statelier stream--
May acquire, if not the calm
Of its early mountainous shore,
Yet a solemn peace of its own.

And the width of the waters, the hush
Of the grey expanse where he floats,
Freshening its current and spotted with foam
As it draws to the Ocean, may strike
Peace to the soul of the man on its breast--
As the pale waste widens around him,
As the banks fade dimmer away,
As the stars come out, and the night-wind
Brings up the stream
Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea.

Matthew Arnold - The Forsaken Merman

The Forsaken Merman

Come, dear children, let us away;
Down and away below!
Now my brothers call from the bay,
Now the great winds shoreward blow,
Now the salt tides seaward flow;
Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away!
This way, this way!

Call her once before you go--
Call once yet!
In a voice that she will know:
'Margaret! Margaret!'
Children's voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother's ear;

Children's voices, wild with pain--
Surely she will come again!
Call her once and come away;
This way, this way!
'Mother dear, we cannot stay!
The wild white horses foam and fret.'
Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down;
Call no more!
One last look at the white-wall'd town
And the little grey church on the windy shore,
Then come down!
She will not come though you call all day;
Come away, come away!

Children dear, was it yesterday
We heard the sweet bells over the bay?
In the caverns where we lay,
Through the surf and through the swell,
The far-off sound of a silver bell?
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,
Where the winds are all asleep;
Where the spent lights quiver and gleam,
Where the salt weed sways in the stream,
Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,
Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,
Dry their mail and bask in the brine;
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
Round the world for ever and aye?
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 comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well,
When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.
She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea;
She said: 'I must go, to} my kinsfolk pray
In the little grey church on the shore to-day.
'T#will be Easter-time in the world--ah me!
And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee.'
I said: 'Go up, dear heart, through the waves;
Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!'
She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.
Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone?
'The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan;
Long prayers,' I said, 'in the world they say;
Come!' I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay.
We went up the beach, by the sandy down
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town;
Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,
To the little grey church on the windy hill.
From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,
But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.
We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,
And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.
She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:
'Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here!
Dear heart,' I said, 'we are long alone;
The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.'
But, ah, she gave me never a look,
For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book!
Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.
Come away, children, call no more!
Come away, come down, call no more!

Down, down, down!
Down to the depths of the sea!
She sits at her wheel in the humming town,
Singing most joyfully.
Hark what she sings: 'O joy, O joy,
For the humming street, and the child with its toy!
For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well;
For the wheel where I spun,
And the blessed light of the sun!'
And so she sings her fill,
Singing most joyfully,
Till the spindle drops from her hand,
And the whizzing wheel stands still.
She steals to the window, and looks at the sand,
And over the sand at the sea;
And her eyes are set in a stare;
And anon there breaks a sigh,
And anon there drops a tear,
From a sorrow-clouded eye,
And a heart sorrow-laden,
A long, long sigh;
For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden
And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away children
Come children, come down!
The hoarse wind blows coldly;
Lights shine in the town.
She will start from her slumber
When gusts shake the door;
She will hear the winds howling,
Will hear the waves roar.
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.'

But, children, at midnight,
When soft the winds blow,
When clear falls the moonlight,
When spring-tides are low;
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starr'd with broom,
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanch'd sands a gloom;
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie,
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white, sleeping town;
At the church on the hill-side--
And then come back down.
Singing: 'There dwells a loved one,
But cruel is she!
She left lonely for ever
The kings of the sea.'

Matthew Arnold - The Buried Life

The Buried Life

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!
But there's a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy gay smiles no anodyne.
Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.

Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men conceal'd
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;
I knew they lived and moved
Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves--and yet
The same heart beats in every human breast!

But we, my love!--doth a like spell benumb
Our hearts, our voices?--must we too be dumb?

Ah! well for us, if even we,
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd;
For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd!

Fate, which foresaw
How frivolous a baby man would be--
By what distractions he would be possess'd,
How he would pour himself in every strife,
And well-nigh change his own identity--
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey
Even in his own despite his being's law,
Bade through the deep recesses of our breast
The unregarded river of our life
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;
And that we should not see
The buried stream, and seem to be
Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,
Though driving on with it eternally.

But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us--to know
Whence our lives come and where they go.
And many a man in his own breast then delves,
But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves--
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course on for ever unexpress'd.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well--but 't#is not true!
And then we will no more be rack'd
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
Their stupefying power;
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!
Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,
From the soul's subterranean depth upborne
As from an infinitely distant land,
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey
A melancholy into all our day.
Only--but this is rare--
When a belov{'e}d hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,
Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,
When our world-deafen'd ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd--
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.
A man becomes aware of his life's flow,
And hears its winding murmur; and he sees
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.

And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth for ever chase
That flying and elusive shadow, rest.
An air of coolness plays upon his face,
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.
And then he thinks he knows
The hills where his life rose,
And the sea where it goes.