Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/476

438 The scented pines of Switzerland

Stand dark round thy green grave,—

Between the dusty vineyard-walls

Issuing on that green place,

The early peasant still recalls

The pensive stranger's face,—

And stoops to clear thy moss-grown date

Ere he plods on again;

Or whether, by maligner fate,

Among the swarms of men,—

Where between granite terraces

The blue Seine rolls her wave,

The Capital of Pleasure sees

Thy hardly-heard-of grave,—

Farewell! Under the sky we part,

In this stern Alpine dell.

O unstrung will! O broken heart!

A last, a last farewell!

OBERMANN ONCE MORE.

(COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING.)

? Ah! twenty years, it cuts

All meaning from a name!

White houses prank where once were huts;

Glion, but not the same!

And yet I know not! All unchanged

The turf, the pines, the sky!