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Bald as the bare mountain tops are bald, with a baldness full of grandeur.

Matthew Arnold

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Matthew Arnold
Age: 65 †
Born: 1822
Born: December 24
Died: 1888
Died: April 15
Journalist
Literary Critic
Poet
School Inspector
University Teacher
Writer
Laleham
Surrey
Bare
Hiking
Mountain
Full
Baldness
Tops
Bald
Grandeur

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The pursuit of perfection, then, is the pursuit of sweetness and light.... He who works for sweetness and light united, works to make reason and the will of God prevail.
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And we forget because we must and not because we will.
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Hither and thither spins The wind-borne mirroring soul, A thousand glimpses wins, And never sees a whole.
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Culture is properly described as the love of perfection it is a study of perfection.
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Nature's great law, and the law of all men's minds? To its own impulse every creature stirs: Live by thy light, and Earth will live by hers.
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How many minds--almost all the great ones--were formed in secrecy and solitude!
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Because thou must not dream, thou need not despair.
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Ah! two desires toss about The poet's feverish blood One drives him to the world without, And one to solitude.
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Calm soul of all things! make it mine To feel, amid the city's jar, That there abides a peace of thine, Man did not make, and cannot mar! The will to neither strive nor cry, The power to feel what others give! Calm, calm me more! nor let me die Before I have begun to live.
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Alas! is even love too weak To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
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Let the long contention cease! / Geese are swans, and swans are geese.
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I keep saying, Shakespeare, Shakespeare, you are as obscure as life is.
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The world hath failed to impart the joy our youth forebodes failed to fill up the void which in our breasts we bear.
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Greatness is a spiritual condition.
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Is it so small a thing to have enjoyed the sun, to have lived light in the sky, to have loved, to have thought, to have done?
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The sea of faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world.
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