MATTHEW ARNOLD

Within that wood where thine own scholar strays,

O! Poet, thou art passed, and at its bound

Hollow and sere we cry, yet win no sound

But the dark muttering of the forest maze

We may not tread, nor pierce with any gaze;

And hardly love dare whisper thou hast found

That restful moonlit slope of pastoral ground

Set in dark dingles of the songful ways.

Gone! they have called our shepherd from the hill,

Passed is the sunny sadness of his song,

That song which sang of sight and yet was brave

To lay the ghosts of seeing, subtly strong

To wean from tears and from the troughs to save;

And who shall teach us now that he is still!