Matthew Arnold Quotes
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Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, Where the winds are all asleep.
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Home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs, and unpopular names, and impossible loyalties!
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With aching hands and bleeding feet We dig and heap, lay stone on stone; We bear the burden and the heat Of the long day and wish’t were done. Not till the hours of light return All we have built do we discern.
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The Celts certainly have it in a wonderful measure.
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Poetry is simply the most beautiful, impressive, and widely effective mode of saying things.
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The great apostle of the Philistines, Lord Macaulay
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Burke is so great because, almost alone in England, he brings thought to bear upon politics, he saturates politics with thought.
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At the present moment two things about the Christian religion must surely be clear to anybody with eyes in his head. One is, that men cannot do without it; the other, that they cannot do with it as it is.
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The freethinking of one age is the common sense of the next.
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Because thou must not dream, thou need not despair.
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Greatness is a spiritual condition worthy to excite love, interest, and admiration; and the outward proof of possessing greatness is that we excite love, interest and admiration.
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It is so small a thing to have enjoyed the sun, to have lived light in the spring, to have loved, to have thought, to have done.
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I am past thirty, and three parts iced over.
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However, if I shall live to be eighty I shall probably be the only person left in England who reads anything but newspapers and scientific publications.
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And we forget because we must and not because we will.
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Let the long contention cease! Geese are swans, and swans are geese.
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Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew. In quiet she reposes: Ah! would that I did too.
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Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below. Now my brothers call from the bay; Now the great winds shoreward blow; Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away. This way, this way!
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Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.
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Still bent to make some port he knows not where, still standing for some false impossible shore.
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Of these two literatures, as of the intellect of Europe in general, the main effort, for now many years, has been a critical effort; the endeavour, in all branches of knowledge - theology, philosophy, history, art, science - to see the object as in itself it really is.
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The notion of the free play of the mind upon all subjects being a pleasure in itself, being an object of desire, being an essential provider of elements without which a nation's spirit, whatever compensations it may have for them, must, in the long run, die of inanition, hardly enters into an Englishman's thoughts.
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We, in some unknown Power's employ, Move on a rigorous line; Can neither, when we will, enjoy, Nor, when we will, resign.
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Nature, with equal mind, Sees all her sons at play, Sees man control the wind, The wind sweep man away.