Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 29

Listen, Eugenia-- How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves!

Again--thou hearest?

Eternal pa.s.sion!

Eternal pain!

URANIA

I too have suffer'd; yet I know She is not cold, though she seems so.

She is not cold, she is not light; But our ign.o.ble souls lack might.

She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, While we for hopeless pa.s.sion die; Yet she could love, those eyes declare, Were but men n.o.bler than they are.

Eagerly once her gracious ken Was turn'd upon the sons of men; But light the serious visage grew-- She look'd, and smiled, and saw them through.

Our petty souls, our strutting wits, Our labour'd, puny pa.s.sion-fits-- Ah, may she scorn them still, till we Scorn them as bitterly as she!

Yet show her once, ye heavenly Powers, One of some worthier race than ours!

One for whose sake she once might prove How deeply she who scorns can love.

His eyes be like the starry lights-- His voice like sounds of summer nights-- In all his lovely mien let pierce The magic of the universe!

And she to him will reach her hand, And gazing in his eyes will stand, And know her friend, and weep for glee, And cry: _Long, long I've look'd for thee._

Then will she weep; with smiles, till then, Coldly she mocks the sons of men.

Till then, her lovely eyes maintain Their pure, unwavering, deep disdain.

EUPHROSYNE

I must not say that thou wast true, Yet let me say that thou wast fair; And they, that lovely face who view, Why should they ask if truth be there?

Truth--what is truth? Two bleeding hearts, Wounded by men, by fortune tried, Outwearied with their lonely parts, Vow to beat henceforth side by side.

The world to them was stern and drear Their lot was but to weep and moan.

Ah, let them keep their faith sincere, For neither could subsist alone!

But souls whom some benignant breath Hath charm'd at birth from gloom and care, These ask no love, these plight no faith, For they are happy as they are.

The world to them may homage make, And garlands for their forehead weave; And what the world can give, they take-- But they bring more than they receive.

They s.h.i.+ne upon the world! Their ears To one demand alone are coy; They will not give us love and tears, They bring us light and warmth and joy.

It was not love which heaved thy breast, Fair child!--it was the bliss within.

Adieu! and say that one, at least, Was just to what he did not win.

CALAIS SANDS

A thousand knights have rein'd their steeds To watch this line of sand-hills run, Along the never-silent Strait, To Calais glittering in the sun; To look tow'rd Ardres' Golden Field Across this wide aerial plain, Which glows as if the Middle Age Were gorgeous upon earth again.

Oh, that to share this famous scene, I saw, upon the open sand, Thy lovely presence at my side, Thy shawl, thy look, thy smile, thy hand!

How exquisite thy voice would come, My darling, on this lonely air!

How sweetly would the fresh sea-breeze Shake loose some band of soft brown hair!

Yet now my glance but once hath roved O'er Calais and its famous plain; To England's cliffs my gaze is turn'd, On the blue strait mine eyes I strain.

Thou comest! Yes! the vessel's cloud Hangs dark upon the rolling sea.

Oh, that yon sea-bird's wings were mine, To win one instant's glimpse of thee!

I must not spring to grasp thy hand, To woo thy smile, to seek thine eye; But I may stand far off, and gaze, And watch thee pa.s.s unconscious by,

And spell thy looks, and guess thy thoughts, Mixt with the idlers on the pier.-- Ah, might I always rest unseen, So I might have thee always near!

To-morrow hurry through the fields Of Flanders to the storied Rhine!

To-night those soft-fringed eyes shall close Beneath one roof, my queen! with mine.

FADED LEAVES

1. THE RIVER

Still glides the stream, slow drops the boat Under the rustling poplars' shade; Silent the swans beside us float-- None speaks, none heeds; ah, turn thy head!

Let those arch eyes now softly s.h.i.+ne, That mocking mouth grow sweetly bland; Ah, let them rest, those eyes, on mine!

On mine let rest that lovely hand!

My pent-up tears oppress my brain, My heart is swoln with love unsaid.

Ah, let me weep, and tell my pain, And on thy shoulder rest my head!

Before I die--before the soul, Which now is mine, must re-attain Immunity from my control, And wander round the world again;

Before this teased o'erlabour'd heart For ever leaves its vain employ, Dead to its deep habitual smart, And dead to hopes of future joy.

2. TOO LATE