Quote

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.

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
Place
Flow
Doth
Change
Strength
Smiles
Littles
Cold
Flows
Little
Joy
Tends
Men
Grace
Laid
Love
Goes
Grave
Life
Hope
Graves
Ebbs
Like
Comes
Wave
Tranquil

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Culture is both an intellectual phenomenon and a moral one
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The best poetry will be found to have a power of forming, sustaining, and delighting us, as nothing else can.
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Hither and thither spins The wind-borne mirroring soul, A thousand glimpses wins, And never sees a whole.
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Force and right are the governors of this world force till right is ready.
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We do not what we ought What we ought not, we do And lean upon the thought That chance will bring us through But our own acts, for good or ill, are mightier powers.
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Because thou must not dream, thou need not despair.
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To thee only God granted A heart ever new: To all always open To all always true.
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Coleridge: poet and philosopher wrecked in a mist of opium.
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All the live murmur of a summer's day.
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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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Once read thy own breast right, And thou hast done with fears.
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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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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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The pursuit of perfection, then, is the pursuit of sweetness and light.
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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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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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Others abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask. Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge.
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To have the sense of creative activity is the great happiness and the great proof of being alive.
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