O let the body be a healthy beast, And keep the soul a singing soaring bird; But lure thou not the soul from out the sky To pipe unto the body in the sty. TO A POET As one, the secret lover of a queen, Watches her move within the people's eye, Hears their poor chatter as she passes by, And smiles to think of what his eyes have seen; The little room where love did 'shut them in,' The fragrant couch whereon they twain did lie, And rests his hand where on his heart doth die A bruised daffodil of last night's sin: So, Poet, as I read your rhyme once more Here where a thousand eyes may read it too, I smile your own sweet secret smile at those Who deem the outer petals of the rose The rose's heart--I, who through grace of you, Have known it for my own so long before. THE PASSIONATE READER TO HIS POET Doth it not thrill thee, Poet, Dead and dust though thou art, To feel how I press thy singing Close to my heart?-- Take it at night to my pillow, Kiss it before I sleep, And again when the delicate morning Beginneth to peep? See how I bathe thy pages Here in the light of the sun, Through thy leaves, as a wind among roses, The breezes shall run. Feel how I take thy poem And bury within it my face, As I pressed it last night in the heart of a flower, Or deep in a dearer place. Think, as I love thee, Poet, A thousand love beside, Dear women love to press thee too Against a sweeter side. Art thou not happy, Poet? I sometimes dream that I For such a fragrant fame as thine Would gladly sing and die. Say, wilt thou change thy glory For this same youth of mine? And I will give my days i' the sun For that great song of thine. MATTHEW ARNOLD (DIED, APRIL 15, 1888) Within that wood where thine own scholar strays, O! Poet, thou art passed, and at its bound Hollow and sere we cry, yet win no sound But the dark muttering of the forest maze We may not tread, nor pierce with any gaze; And hardly love dare whisper thou hast found That restful moonlit slope of pastoral ground Set in dark dingles of the songful ways. Gone! they have called our shepherd from the hill, Passed is the sunny sadness of his song, That song which sang of sight and yet was brave To lay the ghosts of seeing, subtly strong To wean from tears and from the troughs to save; And who shall teach us now that he is still! 'TENNYSON' AT THE FARM (TO L. AND H.H.) O you that dwell 'mid farm and fold, Yet keep so quick undulled a heart, I send you here that book of gold, So loved so long; The fairest art, The sweetest English song. And often in the far-off town, When summer sits with open door, I'll dream I see you set it down Beside the churn, Whose round shall slacken more and more, Till you forget to turn. And I shall smile that you forget, And Dad will scold--but never mind! Butter is good, but better yet, Think such as we, To leave the farm and fold behind, And follow such as he.