Matthew Arnold

(1822-1888 / Middlesex / England)

Matthew Arnold Poems

1. Too Late 7/24/2015
2. The Charge 9/9/2013
3. The Good Shepherd With The Kid 4/2/2010
4. The Church Of Brou 4/2/2010
5. Saint Brandan 4/2/2010
6. Tristram And Iseult 4/2/2010
7. Youth's Agitations 4/2/2010
8. Epilogue To Lessing's Laocooen 4/2/2010
9. Kaiser Dead 4/2/2010
10. Geist's Grave 4/2/2010
11. Mycerinus 5/6/2001
12. Obermann Once More 5/6/2001
13. The Strayed Reveller 12/31/2002
14. The Better Part 4/2/2010
15. To A Republican Friend 12/31/2002
16. Stanzas From The Grande Chartreuse 5/6/2001
17. Worldly Place 5/6/2001
18. The Song Of Empedocles 1/13/2003
19. Philomela 5/6/2001
20. The Song Of Callicles 12/31/2002
21. Human Life 4/2/2010
22. The Pagan World 12/31/2002
23. Cadmus And Harmonia 5/6/2001
24. Austerity Of Poetry 4/2/2010
25. Youth And Calm 5/6/2001
26. Thyrsis A Monody 5/6/2001
27. The Voice 12/31/2002
28. Palladium 5/6/2001
29. West London 12/31/2002
30. Apollo Musagetes 5/6/2001
31. Morality 5/6/2001
32. Sohrab And Rustum 12/31/2002
33. Progress 1/1/2004
34. Requiescat 5/6/2001
35. Shakespeare 5/6/2001
36. Memorial Verses 5/6/2001
37. Quiet Work 5/6/2001
38. Revolutions 4/2/2010
39. To Marguerite: Continued 1/3/2003
40. Desire 4/2/2010
Best Poem of Matthew Arnold

Dover Beach

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; - on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness ...

Read the full of Dover Beach

Worldly Place

Even in a palace, life may be led well!
So spake the imperial sage, purest of men,
Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den
Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,

Our freedom for a little bread we sell,
And drudge under some foolish master's ken
Who rates us if we peer outside our pen--
Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell?

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