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A wanderer is man from his birth. He was born in a ship On the breast of the river of Time.

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
Men
Breast
Time
Ship
Breasts
Ships
River
Rivers
Birth
Wanderer
Born
Wanderers

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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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Eutrapelia . A happy and gracious flexibility, Pericles calls this quality of the Athenians...lucidity of thought, clearness and propriety of language, freedom from prejudice and freedom from stiffness, openness of mind, amiability of manners.
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Poetry a criticism of life under the conditions fixed for such a criticism by the laws of poetic truth and poetic beauty.
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For the creation of a masterwork of literature two powers must concur, the power of the man and the power of the moment, and the man is not enough without the moment.
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Thou waitest for the spark from heaven! and we, Light half-believers in our casual deeds . . . Who hesitate and falter life away, And lose tomorrow the ground won today- Ah, do not we, Wanderer, await it too?
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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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Others abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask. Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge.
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Mind is a light which the Gods mock us with, To lead those false who trust it.
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If an historian be an unbeliever in all heroism, if he be a man who brings every thing down to the level of a common mediocrity, depend upon it, the truth is not found in such a writer.
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But there remains the question: what righteousness really is. The method and secret and sweet reasonableness of Jesus.
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For science, God is simply the stream of tendency by which all things seek to fulfill the law of their being.
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And see all sights from pole to pole, And glance, and nod, and hustle by And never once possess our soul Before we die.
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Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew! In quiet she reposes Ah, would that I did too!
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Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine.
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