Matthew Arnold

(1822-1888 / Middlesex / England)

Matthew Arnold Poems

1. Too Late 7/24/2015
2. The Charge 9/9/2013
3. The Good Shepherd With The Kid 4/2/2010
4. Tristram And Iseult 4/2/2010
5. The Church Of Brou 4/2/2010
6. Saint Brandan 4/2/2010
7. Youth's Agitations 4/2/2010
8. Epilogue To Lessing's Laocooen 4/2/2010
9. Kaiser Dead 4/2/2010
10. Geist's Grave 4/2/2010
11. Mycerinus 5/6/2001
12. Obermann Once More 5/6/2001
13. The Strayed Reveller 12/31/2002
14. The Better Part 4/2/2010
15. To A Republican Friend 12/31/2002
16. Human Life 4/2/2010
17. Stanzas From The Grande Chartreuse 5/6/2001
18. Worldly Place 5/6/2001
19. The Song Of Empedocles 1/13/2003
20. Youth And Calm 5/6/2001
21. The Pagan World 12/31/2002
22. Philomela 5/6/2001
23. Palladium 5/6/2001
24. Cadmus And Harmonia 5/6/2001
25. Thyrsis A Monody 5/6/2001
26. West London 12/31/2002
27. The Voice 12/31/2002
28. Apollo Musagetes 5/6/2001
29. Austerity Of Poetry 4/2/2010
30. Morality 5/6/2001
31. Progress 1/1/2004
32. Sohrab And Rustum 12/31/2002
33. Shakespeare 5/6/2001
34. Memorial Verses 5/6/2001
35. Revolutions 4/2/2010
36. Consolation 5/6/2001
37. The Forsaken Merman 5/6/2001
38. To A Friend 12/31/2002
39. Lines Written In Kensington Gardens 5/6/2001
40. From The Hymn Of Empedocles 5/6/2001
Best Poem of Matthew Arnold

Dover Beach

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; - on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness ...

Read the full of Dover Beach

Worldly Place

Even in a palace, life may be led well!
So spake the imperial sage, purest of men,
Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den
Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,

Our freedom for a little bread we sell,
And drudge under some foolish master's ken
Who rates us if we peer outside our pen--
Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell?

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