Only--but this is rare--When a beloved hand is laid in ours, When, jaded with the rush and glare. Of the interminable hours, Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, When our world-deafen'd ear. Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd--A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. A man becomes aware of his life's flow, And hears its winding murmur; and he sees. The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.
Matthew ArnoldAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: english
- Born: December 24, 1822
- Died: April 15, 1888
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