Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/478

440 And who but thou must be, in truth,

Obermann! with me here?

Thou master of my wandering youth,

But left this many a year!

Yes, I forget the world's work wrought,

Its warfare waged with pain:

An eremite with thee, in thought

Once more I slip my chain,—

And to thy mountain chalet come,

And lie beside its door,

And hear the wild bee's Alpine hum,

And thy sad, tranquil lore.

Again I feel the words inspire

Their mournful calm; serene,

Yet tinged with infinite desire

For all that might have been,—

The harmony from which man swerved

Made his life's rule once more;

The universal order served,

Earth happier than before.

—While thus I mused, night gently ran

Down over hill and wood.

Then, still and sudden, Obermann

On the grass near me stood.

Those pensive features well I knew,—

On my mind, years before,

Imaged so oft, imaged so true!

—A shepherd's garb he wore;

A mountain flower was in his hand,

A book was in his breast,