Meant To be
25-02-2008, 03:20 PM
Matthew Arnold
The Buried Life
,Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet
!Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll
,Yes, yes, we know that we can jest
!We know, we know that we can smile
,But there's a something in this breast
,To which thy light words bring no rest
.And thy gay smiles no anodyne
,Give me thy hand, and hush awhile
,And turn those limpid eyes on mine
.And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul
Alas! is even love too weak
?To unlock the heart, and let it speak
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
?To one another what indeed they feel
I knew the mass of men concealed
Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed
They would by other men be met
;With blank indifference, or with blame reproved
I knew they lived and moved
Tricked in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves - and yet
!The same heart beats in every human breast
But we, my love! - doth a like spell benumb
?Our hearts, our voices? - must we too be dumb
,Ah! well for us, if even we
Even for a moment, can get free
;Our heart, and have our lips unchained
!For that which seals them hath been deep-ordained
Fate, which foresaw
--How frivolous a baby man would be
,By what distractions he would be possessed
,How he would pour himself in every strife
--And well-nigh change his own identity
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey
,Even in his own despite his being's law
Bade through the deep recesses of our breast
The unregarded river of our life
;Pursue with indiscernible flow its way
And that we should not see
The buried stream, and seem to be
,Eddying at large in blind uncertainty
.Though driving on with it eternally
,But often, in the world's most crowded streets
,But often, in the din of strife
There rises an unspeakable desire
;After the knowledge of our buried life
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
;In tracking out our true, original course
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us - to know
.Whence our lives come and where they go
,And many a man in his own breast then delves
.But deep enough, alas! none ever mines
,And we have been on many thousand lines
;And we have shown, on each, spirit and power
,But hardly have we, for one little hour
--Been on our own line, have we been ourselves
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
,The nameless feelings that course through our breast
.But they course on for ever unexpressed
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
!Is eloquent, is well - but 'tis not true
And then we will no more be racked
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
;Their stupefying power
!Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call
,Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn
From the soul's subterranean depth upborne
,As from an infinitely distant land
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey
.A melancholy into all our day
-Only - but this is rare
,When a beloved hand is laid in ours
When, jaded with the rush and glare
,Of the interminable hours
,Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear
When our world-deafened ear
--Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed
,A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast
.And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again
,The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain
.And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know
,A man becomes aware of his life's flow
And hears its winding murmur; and he sees
.The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze
And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth for ever chase
.That flying and elusive shadow, rest
,An air of coolness plays upon his face
.And an unwonted calm pervades his breast
And then he thinks he knows
,The hills where his life rose
.And the sea where it goes
The Buried Life
,Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet
!Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll
,Yes, yes, we know that we can jest
!We know, we know that we can smile
,But there's a something in this breast
,To which thy light words bring no rest
.And thy gay smiles no anodyne
,Give me thy hand, and hush awhile
,And turn those limpid eyes on mine
.And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul
Alas! is even love too weak
?To unlock the heart, and let it speak
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
?To one another what indeed they feel
I knew the mass of men concealed
Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed
They would by other men be met
;With blank indifference, or with blame reproved
I knew they lived and moved
Tricked in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves - and yet
!The same heart beats in every human breast
But we, my love! - doth a like spell benumb
?Our hearts, our voices? - must we too be dumb
,Ah! well for us, if even we
Even for a moment, can get free
;Our heart, and have our lips unchained
!For that which seals them hath been deep-ordained
Fate, which foresaw
--How frivolous a baby man would be
,By what distractions he would be possessed
,How he would pour himself in every strife
--And well-nigh change his own identity
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey
,Even in his own despite his being's law
Bade through the deep recesses of our breast
The unregarded river of our life
;Pursue with indiscernible flow its way
And that we should not see
The buried stream, and seem to be
,Eddying at large in blind uncertainty
.Though driving on with it eternally
,But often, in the world's most crowded streets
,But often, in the din of strife
There rises an unspeakable desire
;After the knowledge of our buried life
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
;In tracking out our true, original course
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us - to know
.Whence our lives come and where they go
,And many a man in his own breast then delves
.But deep enough, alas! none ever mines
,And we have been on many thousand lines
;And we have shown, on each, spirit and power
,But hardly have we, for one little hour
--Been on our own line, have we been ourselves
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
,The nameless feelings that course through our breast
.But they course on for ever unexpressed
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
!Is eloquent, is well - but 'tis not true
And then we will no more be racked
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
;Their stupefying power
!Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call
,Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn
From the soul's subterranean depth upborne
,As from an infinitely distant land
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey
.A melancholy into all our day
-Only - but this is rare
,When a beloved hand is laid in ours
When, jaded with the rush and glare
,Of the interminable hours
,Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear
When our world-deafened ear
--Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed
,A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast
.And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again
,The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain
.And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know
,A man becomes aware of his life's flow
And hears its winding murmur; and he sees
.The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze
And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth for ever chase
.That flying and elusive shadow, rest
,An air of coolness plays upon his face
.And an unwonted calm pervades his breast
And then he thinks he knows
,The hills where his life rose
.And the sea where it goes