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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.

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
Light
Lights
Strewn
Salt
Caverns
Streams
Quiver
Sand
Gleam
Cool
Winds
Spent
Stream
Deep
Asleep
Wind
Weed
Sways

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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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Mind is a light which the Gods mock us with, To lead those false who trust it.
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To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost Which blamed the living man.
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For poetry the idea is everything the rest is a world of illusion, of divine illusion. Poetry attaches its emotion to the idea the idea is the fact. The strongest part of our religion today is its unconscious poetry.
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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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Have something to say, and say it as clearly as you can. That is the only secret.
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Nature, with equal mind, Sees all her sons at play, Sees man control the wind, The wind sweep man away.
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Weep bitterly over the dead, for he is worthy, and then comfort thyself drive heaviness away: thou shall not do him good, but hurt thyself.
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We cannot kindle when we will The fire which in the heart resides, The spirit bloweth and is still, In mystery our soul abides: But tasks in hours of insight will'd Can be through hours of gloom fulfill'd.
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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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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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Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world for ever and aye.
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Unquiet souls. In the dark fermentation of earth, in the never idle workshop of nature, in the eternal movement, yea shall find yourselves again.
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The true meaning of religion is thus not simply morality, but morality touched by emotion.
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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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All the live murmur of a summer's day.
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One has often wondered whether upon the whole earth there is anything so unintelligent, so unapt to perceive how the world is really going, as an ordinary young Englishman of our upper class.
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