Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold. Arnold Matthew

the drowsy new-waked clown In his white quaint-embroider'd frock Make, whistling, tow'rd his mist-wreathed flock— Slowly, behind his heavy tread, The wet, flower'd grass heaves up its head. Lean'd on his gate, he gazes—tears Are in his eyes, and in his ears The murmur of a thousand years. Before him he sees life unroll, A placid and continuous whole— That general life, which does not cease, Whose secret is not joy, but peace; That life, whose dumb wish is not miss'd If birth proceeds, if things subsist; The life of plants, and stones, and rain, The life he craves—if not in vain Fate gave, what chance shall not control, His sad lucidity of soul.

      You listen—but that wandering smile,

       Fausta, betrays you cold the while!

       Your eyes pursue the bells of foam

       Wash'd, eddying, from this bank, their home.

       Those gipsies, so your thoughts I scan, Are less, the poet more, than man. They feel not, though they move and see; Deeper the poet feels; but he Breathes, when he will, immortal air, Where Orpheus and where Homer are. In the day's life, whose iron round Hems us all in, he is not bound; He leaves his kind, o'erleaps their pen, And flees the common life of men. He escapes thence, but we abide— Not deep the poet sees, but wide.