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There is no better motto which it [culture] can have than these words of Bishop Wilson, To make reason and the will of God prevail.

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
Reason
Better
Bishop
Make
Wilson
Bishops
Prevail
Motto
Words
Culture

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Not deep the poet sees, but wide.
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The true meaning of religion is thus not simply morality, but morality touched by emotion.
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Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well.
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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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Physician of the Iron Age, Goethe has done his pilgrimage. He took the suffering human race, He read each wound, each weakness clear -- And struck his finger on the place, And said -- Thou ailest here, and here.
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The brave, impetuous heart yields everywhere to the subtle, contriving head.
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To the Bible men will return and why? Because they cannot do without it.
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Know, man hath all which Nature hath, but more, And in that more lie all his hopes of good.
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Protestantism has the method of Jesus with His secret too much left out of mind Catholicism has His secret with His method too much left out of mind neither has His unerring balance, His intuition, His sweet reasonableness. But both have hold of a great truth, and get from it a great power.
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I keep saying, Shakespeare, Shakespeare, you are as obscure as life is.
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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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Others abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask. Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge.
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How many minds--almost all the great ones--were formed in secrecy and solitude!
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We, peopling the void air, Make Gods to whom to impute The ills we ought to bear With God and Fate to rail at, suffering easily.
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All the live murmur of a summer's day.
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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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Nothing could moderate, in the bosom of the great English middle class, their passionate, absorbing, almost blood-thirsty clinging to life.
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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.
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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.
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The heart less bounding at emotion new, The hope, once crushed, less quick to spring again.
Matthew Arnold