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Matthew Arnold's Poetry, by first line

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  • I
    The evening comes, the fields are still.
    121 lines
  • Mist clogs the sunshine.
    Smoky dwarf houses
    90 lines, 2 comments
  • We were apart; yet, day by day,
    I bade my heart more constant be.
    42 lines
  • In this lone, open glade I lie,
    Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand;
    44 lines
  • Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece,
    Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease.
    74 lines
  • We cannot kindle when we will
    The fire which in the heart resides;
    36 lines, 2 comments
  • "Not by the justice that my father spurn'd,
    Not for the thousands whom my father slew,
    127 lines
  • Savez-vous quelque bien qui console du regret d'un
    monde?--OBERMANN.
    350 lines
  • Set where the upper streams of Simois flow
    Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock and wood;
    24 lines, 1 comment
  • Hark! ah, the nightingale--
    The tawny-throated!
    32 lines, 1 comment
  • Strew on her roses, roses,
    And never a spray of yew!
    16 lines
  • Others abide our question. Thou art free.
    We ask and ask--Thou smilest and art still,
    14 lines, 2 comments
  • Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
    Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
    98 lines, 5 comments
  • Come, dear children, let us away;
    Down and away below!
    143 lines, 2 comments
  • The Master stood upon the mount, and taught.
    He saw a fire in his disciples’ eyes;
    59 lines
  • THROUGH the black, rushing smoke-bursts,
    Thick breaks the red flame.
    58 lines
  • Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts,
    Thick breaks the red flame;
    52 lines, 1 comment
  • Far, far from here,
    The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay
    34 lines
  • 'Tis death! and peace, indeed, is here,
    And ease from shame, and rest from fear.
    25 lines, 3 comments
  • Even in a palace, life may be led well!
    So spake the imperial sage, purest of men,
    14 lines
  • Faster, faster,
    O Circe, Goddess,
    307 lines
  • Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill;
    Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes!
    250 lines
  • Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused
    With rain, where thick the crocus blows,
    210 lines, 2 comments
  • Coldly, sadly descends
    The autumn-evening. The field
    208 lines
  • How changed is here each spot man makes or fills!
    In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same;
    240 lines
  • And the first grey of morning fill'd the east,
    And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream.
    892 lines
  • 'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead
    Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,
    14 lines
  • What is it to grow old?
    Is it to lose the glory of the form,
    35 lines
  • A region desolate and wild.
    Black, chafing water: and afloat,
    16 lines
  • In his cool hall, with haggard eyes,
    The Roman noble lay;
    44 lines, 1 comment
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