Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/93

Rh From some high station he looks down,

At sunset, on a populous town;

Surveys each happy group which fleets,

Toil ended, through the shining streets,—

Each with some errand of its own,—

And does not say, I am alone.

He sees the gentle stir of birth

When morning purifies the earth;

He leans upon a gate, and sees

The pastures, and the quiet trees.

Low, woody hill, with gracious bound,

Folds the still valley almost round;

The cuckoo, loud on some high lawn,

Is answered from the depth of dawn;

In the hedge straggling to the stream,

Pale, dew-drenched, half-shut roses gleam.

But, where the farther side slopes down,

He sees the drowsy new-waked clown

In his white quaint-embroidered frock

Make, whistling, toward his mist-wreathed flock,

Slowly, behind his heavy tread,

The wet, flowered grass heaves up its head.

Leaned on his gate, he gazes: tears

Are in his eyes, and in his ears

The murmur of a thousand years.

Before him he sees life unroll,

A placid and continuous whole,—

That general life, which does not cease,

Whose secret is not joy, but peace;

That life, whose dumb wish is not missed

If birth proceeds, if things subsist;

The life of plants, and stones, and rain,

The life he craves—if not in vain