Matthew
Arnold
(1822-1888)
Strew on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew!
In quiet she reposes;
Ah, would that I did too!
Her mirth the world
required;
She bathed it in smiles of glee.
But her heart was tired, tired,
And now they let her be.
Her life was turning,
turning,
In mazes of heat and sound.
But for peace her soul was yearning,
And now peace laps her round.
Her cabin'd, ample
spirit,
It flutter'd and fail'd for breath.
To-night it doth inherit
The vasty hall of death.
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