Matthew Arnold

(1822-1888 / Middlesex / England)

Too Late - Poem by Matthew Arnold

Each on his own strict line we move,
And some find death ere they find love;
So far apart their lives are thrown
From the twin soul which halves their own.

And sometimes, by harder fate,
The lovers meet, but meet too late.
- Thy heart is mine! - True, true! ah, true!
- Then, love, thy hand! - Ah no! adieu!

Topic(s) of this poem: longing


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Poem Submitted: Friday, July 24, 2015



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