Matthew Arnold — The Voice

       &nbsp       &nbspAs the kindling glances,        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspQueen-like and clear,        &nbsp       &nbspWhich the bright moon lances        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspFrom her tranquil sphere        &nbsp       &nbspAt the sleepless waters        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspOf a lonely mere, On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully,        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspShiver and die.        &nbsp       &nbspAs the tears of sorrow        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspMothers have shed—        &nbsp       &nbspPrayers that to-morrow        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspShall in vain be sped        &nbsp       &nbspWhen the flower they flow for        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspLies frozen and dead— Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast,        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspBringing no rest.        &nbsp       &nbspLike bright waves that fall        &nbsp       &nbspWith a lifelike motion On the lifeless margin of the sparkling Ocean; A wild rose climbing up a mouldering wall— A gush of sunbeams through a ruin'd hall— Strains of glad music at a funeral—        &nbspSo sad, and with so wild a start        &nbspTo this deep-sober'd heart,        &nbspSo anxiously and painfully,        &nbspSo drearily and doubtfully, And oh, with such intolerable change        &nbspOf thought, such contrast strange, O unforgotten voice, thy accents come, Like wanderers from the world's extremity,        &nbspUnto their ancient home! In vain, all, all in vain, They beat upon mine ear again, Those melancholy tones so sweet and still. Those lute-like tones which in the bygone year        &nbspDid steal into mine ear— Blew such a thrilling summons to my will, Yet could not shake it; Made my tost heart its very life-blood spill, Yet could not break it.