Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/938

 MATTHEW ARNOLD

The coronals of that forgotten time.

Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy's tean And only in the hidden brookside gleam

Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime.

Where is the girl, who, by the boatman's door, Above the locks, above the boating throng,

Unmoor 'd our skiff, when, through the Wytham flat* Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among,

And darting swallows, and light water-gnats,

We track'd the shy Thames shore ? Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell

Of our boat passing heav'd the river-grass,

Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass? They all are gone, and thou art gone as well.

Yes, thou art gone' and round me too the night In evcr-nearmg circle weaves her shade.

I see her veil draw soft across the day, 1 feel her slowly chilling breath invade

The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with grey

I feel her finger light Laid pausef ully upon life's headlong train ;

The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew,

The heart less bounding at emotion new, And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again.

And long the way appears, which seem'd so bhort To the unpractis'd eye of sanguine youth,

And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air, The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth, Tops in life's morning-sun so bright and bare'

Unbrcachable the fort

�� �