Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear,

Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee! Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the hay,

Woods with anemones in flower till May, Know him a wanderer still; then why not me?

A fugitive and gracious light he seeks,

Shy to illumine; and I seek it too.

This does not come with houses or with gold, With place, with honor, and a flattering crew; 'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold:

But the smooth-slipping weeks

Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired;
Out of the heed of mortals he is gone,
He wends unfollowed, he must house alone;
Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired.

Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound! Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour.

Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest,

If men esteemed thee feeble, gave thee power, If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest. And this rude Cumner ground,

Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields, Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful

time,

Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime!

And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields.

What though the music of thy rustic flute Kept not for long its happy, country tone; Lost it too soon and learnt a stormy note

Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat

It fail'd, and thou wast mute!

Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light, And long with men of care thou couldst not stay,

And soon thy foot resumed its wandering

way,

Left human haunt, and on alone till night.

Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here! 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore,

Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home. Then through the great town's harsh, heartwearying roar,

Let in thy voice a whisper often come,
To chase fatigue and fear:

Why faintest thou? I wandered till I died.
Roam on! The light we sought is shining

still.

Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns

the hill,

Our Scholar travels yet the loved hill-side.

Matthew Arnold

VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE

NIGHT

IGIL strange I kept on the field one night: When you, my son and my comrade, dropt at my side that day,

One look I but gave, which your dear eyes re

turn'd, with a look I shall never forget; One touch of your hand to mine, O boy, reach'd up as you lay on the ground;

Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle;

Till late in the night reliev'd, to the place at last again I made my way;

Found you in death so cold, dear comrade found your body, son of responding kisses (never again on earth responding ;)

Bared your face in the starlight - curious the scene - cool blew the moderate night-wind; Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading;

Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet, there in the fragrant silent night;

But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh - Long, long I gazed;

Then on the earth partially reclining, sat by your side, leaning my chin in my hands; Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you, dearest comrade- - Not a tear, not a word;

Vigil of silence, love and death - vigil for you, my son and my soldier,

As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole;

Vigil final for you, brave boy (I could not save you, swift was your death,

I faithfully loved you and cared for you living
I think we shall surely meet again;)
Til at latest lingering of the night, indeed just
as the dawn appear'd,

My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop'd
Iwell his form,

Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head, and carefully under feet;

And there and then, and bathed by the rising

sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited;

Ending my vigil strange with that- vigil of night and battle-field dim;

Vigil for boy of responding kisses (never again on earth responding ;)

- vigil I never

Vigil for comrade swiftly slain. forget, how as day brighten'd,

I rose from the chill ground, and folded my soldier well in his blanket,

And buried him where he fell.

Walt Whitman

DE

KNOWN AND UNKNOWN

FROM In Memoriam

EAR friend, far off, my lost desire,
So far, so near in woe

and weal;

O loved the most, when most I feel

There is a lower and a higher;

Known and unknown, human, divine;

Sweet human hand and lips and eye;
Dear heavenly friend that canst not die,

Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine!

Strange friend, past, present, and to be,
Loved deeplier, darklier understood;
Behold, I dream a dream of good

And mingle all the world with thee.

Thy voice is on the rolling air;

i hear thee where the waters run; Thou standest in the rising sun, And in the setting thou art fair.

What art thou then? I cannot guess;
But tho' I seem in star and flower

To feel thee some diffusive power,
I do not therefore love thee less:

My love involves the love before;

My love is vaster passion now;

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou, I seem to love thee more and more.

Far off thou art, but ever nigh;

I have thee still, and I rejoice;
I prosper, circled with thy voice;
I shall not lose thee tho' I die.

SE

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

WAITING

ERENE, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For, lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,

And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day,

The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?

I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it has sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.