The Voice by Matthew Arnold — Past Poetry archive

As the kindling glances, Queen-like and clear, Which the bright moon lances From her tranquil sphere At the sleepless waters Of a lonely mere, On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully, Shiver and die. As the tears of sorrow Mothers have shed⁠— Prayers that to-morrow Shall in vain be sped 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 a lifelike motion On the lifeless margin of the sparkling Ocean:⁠— A wild rose climbing up a mould’ring wall⁠— A gush of sunbeams through a ruin’d hall⁠— Strains of glad music at a funeral:⁠— So sad, and with so wild a start To this long sober’d heart, So anxiously and painfully, So drearily and doubtfully And, oh, with such intolerable change Of thought, such contrast strange, O unforgotten Voice, thy whispers come, Like wanderers from the world’s extremity, Unto 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 long distant years Did steal into mine ears: Blew such a thrilling summons to my will Yet could not shake it: Drain’d all the life my full heart had to spill; Yet could not break it.