MATTHEW ARNOLD
W hy jaintest thou? I wonder* d till I died.
Roam on I the light we sought is shimng still.
Dost thou ask frooj f ? Our Tree yet crowns the hill, Our Scholar travels yet the loved hillside.
��757 The Song of Callicles
THROUGH the black, rushing smoke-bursts, Thick breaks the red flame. All Etna heaves -fiercely Her forest-clothed frame.
Not here, O Apollo'
Are haunts meet for thcc.
But, where Helicon breaks down
In cliff to the sea.
Where the moon-silver'd inlets Send far their light voice Up the still vale of Thisbe, O speed, and rejoice'
On the sward at the d iff -top, Lie strewn the white flocks; On the cliff-side, the pigeons Roost deep in the rocks.
In the moonlight the shepherds, Soft lull'd by the rills, Lie wrapt in their blankets, Asleep on the hills.
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