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Poem by Matthew Arnold Consolation Mist clogs the sunshine. Smoky dwarf houses Hem me round everywhere; A vague dejection Weighs down my soul. Yet, while I languish, Everywhere countless Prospects unroll themselves, And countless beings Pass countless moods. Far hence, in Asia, On the smooth convent-roofs, On the gilt terraces, Of holy Lassa, Bright shines the sun. Grey time-worn marbles Hold the pure Muses; In their cool gallery, By yellow Tiber, They still look fair. Strange unloved uproar Shrills round their portal; Yet not on Helicon Kept they more cloudless Their noble calm. Through sun-proof alleys In a lone, sand-hemm'd City of Africa, A blind, led beggar, Age-bow'd, asks alms. No bolder robber Erst abode ambush'd Deep in the sandy waste; No clearer eyesight Spied prey afar. Saharan sand-winds Sear'd his keen eyeballs; Spent is the spoil he won. For him the present Holds only pain. Two young, fair lovers, Where the warm June-wind, Fresh from the summer fields Plays fondly round them, Stand, tranced in joy. With sweet, join'd voices, And with eyes brimming: 'Ah,' they cry, 'Destiny, Prolong the present! Time, stand still here!' The prompt stern Goddess Shakes her head, frowning; Time gives his hour-glass Its due reversal; Their hour is gone. With weak indulgence Did the just Goddess Lengthen their happiness, She lengthen'd also Distress elsewhere. The hour, whose happy Unalloy'd moments I would eternalise, Ten thousand mourners Well pleased see end. The bleak, stern hour, Whose severe moments I would annihilate, Is pass'd by others In warmth, light, joy. Time, so complain'd of, Who to no one man Shows partiality, Brings round to all men Some undimm'd hours. Matthew Arnold Matthew Arnold's other poems: Poems of the other poets with the same name: 1556 Views |
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