Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/321

Rh Of languor, though so calm, and though so great

Are yet untroubled and unpassionate;

Who, though so noble, share in the world's toil,

And, though so tasked, keep free from dust and soil!

I will not say that your mild deeps retain

A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain

Who have longed deeply once, and longed in vain;

But I will rather say that you remain

A world above man's head, to let him see

How boundless might his soul's horizons be,

How vast, yet of what clear transparency!

How it were good to live there, and breathe free;

How fair a lot to fill

Is left to each man still!

THE BURIED LIFE.

flows our war of mocking words; and yet

Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!

I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.

Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,

We know, we know that we can smile!

But there's a something in this breast,

To which thy light words bring no rest,

And thy gay smiles no anodyne;

Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,

And turn those limpid eyes on mine,

And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.

Alas! is even love too weak

To unlock the heart, and let it speak?

Are even lovers powerless to reveal

To one another what indeed they feel?