Quote

What is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, The lustre of the eye? Is it for Beauty to forego her wreath? Yes but not this alone.

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
Eye
Glory
Form
Grow
Lose
Loses
Grows
Wreath
Alone
Forego
Beauty
Lustre
Age
Wreaths

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But thou, my son, study to make prevail One colour in thy life, the hue of truth.
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How many minds--almost all the great ones--were formed in secrecy and solitude!
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No, no! The energy of life may be Kept on after the grave, but not begun And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife, From strength to strength advancing--only he His soul well-knit, and all his battles won, Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life.
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Six years-six little years-six drops of time.
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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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And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, / Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honoured, self-secure / Didst tread on earth unguessed at. Better so!.
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Our inequality materializes our upper class, vulgarizes our middle class, brutalizes our lower class.
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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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Have something to say, and say it as clearly as you can. That is the only secret.
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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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Alas! is even love too weak To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
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Waiting for the spark from heaven to fall.
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Once read thy own breast right, And thou hast done with fears.
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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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Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows Like the wave Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men. Love tends life a little grace, A few sad smiles and then, Both are laid in one cold place, In the grave.
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Sanity -- that is the great virtue of the ancient literature the want of that is the great defect of the modern, in spite of its variety and power.
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It is almost impossible to exaggerate the proneness of the human mind to take miracles as evidence, and to seek for miracles as evidence.
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All the live murmur of a summer's day.
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Grey time-worn marbles Hold the pure Muses. In their cool gallery, By yellow Tiber, They still look fair.
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They... who await. No gifts from Chance, have conquered Fate.
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