Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/323

Rh There rises an unspeakable desire

After the knowledge of our buried life;

A thirst to spend our fire and restless force

In tracking out our true, original course;

A longing to inquire

Into the mystery of this heart which beats

So wild, so deep in us,—to know

Whence our lives come, and where they go.

And many a man in his own breast then delves,

But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.

And we have been on many thousand lines,

And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;

But hardly have we, for one little hour,

Been on our own line, have we been ourselves,—

Hardly had skill to utter one of all

The nameless feelings that course through our breast,

But they course on forever unexpressed.

And long we try in vain to speak and act

Our hidden self, and what we say and do

Is eloquent, is well—but 'tis not true!

And then we will no more be racked

With inward striving, and demand

Of all the thousand nothings of the hour

Their stupefying power;

Ah, yes, and they benumb us at our call!

Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,

From the soul's subterranean depth upborne

As from an infinitely distant land,

Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey

A melancholy into all our day.

Only—but this is rare—

When a beloved hand is laid in ours,

When, jaded with the rush and glare