The Voice
Matthew Arnold
1822 to 1888
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As the kindling glances,
Queen-like and clear,
Which the moon lances
From her tranquil sphere
At the sleepless
Of a lonely mere,
On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully,
Shiver and die;
As the tears of sorrow
have shed—
Prayers that to-morrow
Shall in vain be
When the flower they flow for
Lies frozen and dead—
Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast,
Bringing no rest;
Like bright waves that fall
With lifelike motion
On the lifeless margin of the sparkling ocean;
A wild rose climbing up a mouldering wall;
A of sunbeams through a ruined hall;
Strains of glad at a funeral,—
So sad, and with so a start
To this deep-sobered heart,
So anxiously and painfully,
So drearily and doubtfully,
And, oh! with such intolerable
Of thought, such contrast strange,
O unforgotten voice, thy come,
Like wanderers from the world’s extremity,
Unto their home!
In vain, all, all in vain,
They beat mine ear again,—
Those melancholy tones so sweet still;
Those lute-like tones which in the bygone year
steal into mine ear;
Blew such a thrilling summons my will,
Yet could not shake it;
Made my heart its very life-blood spill,
Yet could not break it.