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Hither and thither spins The wind-borne mirroring soul, A thousand glimpses wins, And never sees a whole.

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
Sees
Thither
Wind
Mirroring
Thousand
Hither
Winning
Spins
Soul
Glimpses
Whole
Borne
Never
Wins
Glimpse

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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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The heart less bounding at emotion new, The hope, once crushed, less quick to spring again.
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Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well.
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The pursuit of perfection, then, is the pursuit of sweetness and light.
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Because thou must not dream, thou need not despair.
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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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If Paris that brief flight allow, My humble tomb explore! It bears: Eternity, be thou My refuge! and no more.
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Let the long contention cease! / Geese are swans, and swans are geese.
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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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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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France, famed in all great arts, in none supreme.
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The brave, impetuous heart yields everywhere to the subtle, contriving head.
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Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn Lent it the music of its trees at dawn?
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The eternal not ourselves that makes for righteousness.
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On Sundays, at the matin-chime, The Alpine peasants, two and three, Climb up here to pray Burghers and dames, at summer's prime, Ride out to church from Chamberry, Dight with mantles gay, But else it is a lonely time Round the Church of Brou.
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