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Matthew Arnold
1822 - 1888
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A Caution To Poets
What poets feel not, when they make, / A pleasure in creating, / The world, in its turn, will not take
A Modern Sappho
They are gone: all is still: Foolish heart, dost thou quiver? / Nothing moves on the lawn but the quick lilac shade. / Far up gleams the house, and beneath flows the river.
A Nameless Epitaph
This sentence have I left behind: / An aching body, and a mind / Not wholly clear, nor wholly blind,
A Picture At Newstead
What made my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell? / ’Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cry / Stormily sweet, his Titan agony;
A Southern Night
The sandy spits, the shore-lock’d lakes, / Melt into open, moonlit sea; / The soft Mediterranean breaks
Alaric at Rome
I / Unwelcome shroud of the forgotten dead, / Oblivion’s dreary fountain, where art thou:
Anti-Desperation
Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man, / How angrily thou spurn’st all simpler fare! / Christ, some one says, was human as we are;
Apollo
CALLICLES (front below) / Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, / Thick breaks the red flame;
Apollo Musagetes
Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, / Thick breaks the red flame; / All Etna heaves fiercely
Austerity Of Poetry
That son of Italy who tried to blow, / Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song, / In his light youth amid a festal throng
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