Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/276

238 Is it so small a thing

To have enjoyed the sun,

To have lived light in the spring,

To have loved, to have thought, to have done

To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes,—

That we must feign a bliss

Of doubtful future date,

And, while we dream on this,

Lose all our present state,

And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose?

Not much, I know, you prize

What pleasures may be had,

Who look on life with eyes

Estranged, like mine, and sad;

And yet the village-churl feels the truth more than you;

Who's loath to leave this life

Which to him little yields,—

His hard-tasked sunburnt wife,

His often-labored fields,

The boors with whom he talked, the country-spots he knew.

But thou, because thou hear'st

Men scoff at heaven and fate,

Because the gods thou fear'st

Fail to make blest thy state,

Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are!

I say: Fear not! Life still

Leaves human effort scope.

But, since life teems with ill,

Nurse no extravagant hope;

Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair!