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The Working-class Is Now Issuing From Its Hiding-place To Assert An Englishman's Heaven-born Privilege Of Doing As He Likes, And Is Beginning To Perplex Us By Marching Where It Likes, Meeting Where It Likes, Bawling What It Likes, Breaking What It Likes.

-Matthew Arnold

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The Working-class Is Now

Matthew Arnold

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The Working-class Is Now Issuing From Its Hiding-place To Assert An Englishman's Heaven-born Privilege Of Doing As He Likes, And Is Beginning To Perplex Us By Marching Where It Likes, Meeting Where It Likes, Bawling What It Likes, Breaking What It Likes.

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Nations Are Not Truly Great Solely Because The Individuals Composing Them Are Numerous, Free, And Active; But They Are Great When These Numbers, This Freedom, And This Activity Are Employed In The Service Of An Ideal Higher Than That Of An Ordinary Man Taken By Himself.

On Sundays, At The Matin-chime, The Alpine Peasants, Two And Three, Climb Up Here To Pray; Burghers And Dames, At Summer's Prime, Ride Out To Church From Chamberry, Dight With Mantles Gay, But Else It Is A Lonely Time Round The Church Of Brou.

Bald As The Bare Mountain Tops Are Bald, With A Baldness Full Of Grandeur.

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-deafen'd Ear Is By The Tones Of A Loved Voice Caress'd-- 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.

Years Hence, Perhaps, May Dawn An Age, More Fortunate, Alas! Than We, Which Without Hardness Will Be Sage, And Gay Without Frivolity.

Time May Restore Us In His Course Goethe's Sage Mind And Byron's Force: But Where Will Europe's Latter Hour Again Find Wordsworth's Healing Power?

Is It So Small A Thing To Have Enjoyed The Sun, To Have Lived Light In The Sky, To Have Loved, To Have Thought, To Have Done?

Like Driftwood Spares Which Meet And Pass Upon The Boundless Ocean-plain, So On The Sea Of Life, Alas! Man Nears Man, Meets, And Leaves Again.

I Keep Saying, Shakespeare, Shakespeare, You Are As Obscure As Life Is.

Nature, With Equal Mind, Sees All Her Sons At Play, Sees Man Control The Wind, The Wind Sweep Man Away.

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 Conceal'd Their Thoughts, For Fear That If Reveal'd They Would By Other Men Be Met With Blank Indifference, Or With Blame Reproved; I Knew They Lived And Moved Trick'd In Disguises, Alien To The Rest Of Men, And Alien To Themselves - And Yet The Same Heart Beats In Every Human Breast!

The Discipline Of The Old Testament May Be Summed Up As A Discipline Teaching Us To Abhor And Flee From Sin; The Discipline Of The New Testament, As A Discipline Teaching Us To Die To It.

It Is - Last Stage Of All When We Are Frozen Up Within, And Quite The Phantom Of Ourselves To Hear The World Applaud The Hollow Ghost Which Blamed The Living Man

There Is No Better Motto Which It [culture] Can Have Than These Words Of Bishop Wilson, "to Make Reason And The Will Of God Prevail."

The Study Of Letters Is The Study Of The Operation Of Human Force, Of Human Freedom And Activity; The Study Of Nature Is The Study Of The Operation Of Non-human Forces, Of Human Limitation And Passivity. The Contemplation Of Human Force And Activity Tends Naturally To Heighten Our Own Force And Activity; The Contemplation Of Human Limits And Passivity Tends Rather To Check It. Therefore The Men Who Have Had The Humanistic Training Have Played, And Yet Play, So Prominent A Part In Human Affairs, In Spite Of Their Prodigious Ignorance Of The Universe.

All Knowledge Is Interesting To A Wise Man, And The Knowledge Of Nature Is Interesting To All Men.

Sad Patience, Too Near Neighbour To Despair.

Children Of Men! The Unseen Power, Whose Eye Forever Doth Accompany Mankind, Hath Look'd On No Religion Scornfully That Men Did Ever Find.

The Strongest Part Of A Religion Today Is Its Unconscious Poetry

The Working-class Is Now Issuing From Its Hiding-place To Assert An Englishman's Heaven-born Privilege Of Doing As He Likes, And Is Beginning To Perplex Us By Marching Where It Likes, Meeting Where It Likes, Bawling What It Likes, Breaking What It Likes.

The Highest Reach Of Science Is, One May Say, An Inventive Power, A Faculty Of Divination, Akin To The Highest Power Exercised In Poetry; Therefore, A Nation Whose Spirit Is Characterised By Energy May Well Be Eminent In Science; And We Have Newton. Shakspeare [sic] And Newton: In The Intellectual Sphere There Can Be No Higher Names. And What That Energy, Which Is The Life Of Genius, Above Everything Demands And Insists Upon, Is Freedom; Entire Independence Of All Authority, Prescription And Routine, The Fullest Room To Expand As It Will.

The Sophist Sneers: Fool, Take Thy Pleasure, Right Or Wrong! The Pious Wail: Forsake A World These Sophists Throng! Be Neither Saint Nor Sophist-led, But Be A Man.

He Spoke, And Loos'd Our Heart In Tears. He Laid Us As We Lay At Birth On The Cool Flowery Lap Of Earth.

The Power Of The Latin Classic Is In Character , That Of The Greek Is In Beauty . Now Character Is Capable Of Being Taught, Learnt, And Assimilated: Beauty Hardly.

Truth Sits Upon The Lips Of Dying Men, And Falsehood, While I Lived, Was Far From Mine.

To Hear The World Applaud The Hollow Ghost Which Blamed The Living Man.

Culture Being A Pursuit Of Our Total Perfection By Means Of Getting To Know, On All The Matters Which Most Concern Us, The Best Which Has Been Thought And Said In The World.

Saw Life Steadily And Saw It Whole.

Most Men In A Brazen Prison Live, Where, In The Sun's Hot Eye, With Heads Bent O'er Their Toil, They Languidly Their Lives To Some Unmeaning Taskwork Give, Dreaming Of Nought Beyond Their Prison-wall.

Life Is The Application Of Noble And Profound Ideas To Life.

Goethe In Weimar Sleeps, And Greece, Long Since, Saw Byron 's Struggle Cease.

Culture Is Both An Intellectual Phenomenon And A Moral One

Say, Has Some Wet Bird-haunted English Lawn Lent It The Music Of Its Trees At Dawn?

O Strong Soul, By What Shore Tarriest Thou Now? For That Force, Surely, Has Not Been Left Vain!

Now, The Whole World Hears Or Shall Hear,--surely Shall Hear, At The Last, Though Men Delay, And Doubt, And Faint, And Fail,-- That Promise Faithful:--"fear Not, Little Flock! It Is Your Father's Will And Joy, To Give To You, The Kingdom"!

Be Neither Saint Nor Sophist-led, But Be A Man.

Culture, The Acquainting Ourselves With The Best That Has Been Known And Said In The World, And Thus With The History Of The Human Spirit.

Art And Culture

The Love Of Science, And The Energy And Honesty In The Pursuit Of Science, In The Best Of The Aryan Races Do Seem To Correspond In A Remarkable Way To The Love Of Conduct, And The Energy And Honesty In The Pursuit Of Conduct, In The Best Of The Semitic.

The True Meaning Of Religion Is Thus Not Simply Morality, But Morality Touched By Emotion.

The Greek Word Euphuia, A Finely Tempered Nature, Gives Exactly The Notion Of Perfection As Culture Brings Us To Perceive It; A Harmonious Perfection, A Perfection In Which The Characters Of Beauty And Intelligence Are Both Present, Which Unites "the Two Noblest Of Things" - As Swift Most Happily Calls Them In His Battle Of The Books, "the Two Noblest Of Things, Sweetness And Light."

In Our English Popular Religion The Common Conception Of A Future State Of Bliss Is That Of ... A Kind Of Perfected Middle-class Home, With Labour Ended, The Table Spread, Goodness All Around, The Lost Ones Restored, Hymnody Incessant.

Once Read Thy Own Breast Right, And Thou Hast Done With Fears.

If An Historian Be An Unbeliever In All Heroism, If He Be A Man Who Brings Every Thing Down To The Level Of A Common Mediocrity, Depend Upon It, The Truth Is Not Found In Such A Writer.

Where Great Whales Come Sailing By, Sail And Sail, With Unshut Eye, Round The World For Ever And Aye.

Truth Illuminates And Gives Joy; And It Is By The Bond Of Joy, Not Of Pleasure, That Men's Spirits Are Indissolubly Held.

Everything In Our Political Life Tends To Hide From Us That There Is Anything Wiser Than Our Ordinary Selves.

The Bloom Is Gone, And With The Bloom Go I.

Mind Is A Light Which The Gods Mock Us With, To Lead Those False Who Trust It.

And We Forget Because We Must And Not Because We Will.

Grey Time-worn Marbles Hold The Pure Muses. In Their Cool Gallery, By Yellow Tiber, They Still Look Fair.

At The Present Moment Two Things About The Christian Religion Must Surely Be Clear To Anybody With Eyes In His Head. One Is, That Men Cannot Do Without It; The Other, That They Cannot Do With It As It Is.

For This Is The True Strength Of Guilty Kings, When They Corrupt The Souls Of Those They Rule.

And That Sweet City With Her Dreaming Spires, She Needs Not June For Beauty's Heightening.

No, No! The Energy Of Life May Be Kept On After The Grave, But Not Begun; And He Who Flagg'd Not In The Earthly Strife, From Strength To Strength Advancing--only He His Soul Well-knit, And All His Battles Won, Mounts, And That Hardly, To Eternal Life.

Culture Looks Beyond Machinery, Culture Hates Hatred; Culture Has One Great Passion--the Passion For Sweetness And Light. It Has One Even Yet Greater, The Passion For Making Them All Prevail. It Is Not Satisfied Till We All Come To A Perfect Man; It Knows That The Sweetness And Light Of The Few Must Be Imperfect Until The Raw And Unkindly Masses Of Humanity Are Touched With Sweetness And Light.

Greatness Is A Spiritual Condition.

The Bent Of Our Time Is Towards Science, Towards Knowing Things As They Are.

Culture, Then, Is A Study Of Perfection, And Perfection Which Insists On Becoming Something Rather Than In Having Something, In An Inward Condition Of The Mind And Spirit, Not In An Outward Set Of Circumstances.

Truth Sits Upon The Lips Of Dying Men.

The Pursuit Of Perfection, Then, Is The Pursuit Of Sweetness And Light.... He Who Works For Sweetness And Light United, Works To Make Reason And The Will Of God Prevail.

Was Christ A Man Like Us?-ah! Let Us Try If We Then, Too, Can Be Such Men As He!

Not Deep The Poet Sees, But Wide.

Not A Having And A Resting, But A Growing And A Becoming, Is The Character Of Perfection As Culture Conceives It.

I Am A Liberal, Yet I Am A Liberal Tempered By Experience, Reflexion, And Renouncement, And I Am, Above All, A Believer In Culture.

The Word "god" Is Used In Most Cases As By No Means A Term Of Science Or Exact Knowledge, But A Term Of Poetry And Eloquence, A Term Thrown Out, So To Speak, As A Not Fully Grasped Object Of The Speaker's Consciousness -- A Literary Term, In Short; And Mankind Mean Different Things By It As Their Consciousness Differs.

Strew On Her Roses, Roses, And Never A Spray Of Yew! In Quiet She Reposes; Ah, Would That I Did Too!

Consider These People, Then, Their Way Of Life, Their Habits, Their Manners, The Very Tones Of Their Voice; Look At Them Attentively; Observe The Literature They Read, The Things Which Give Them Pleasure, The Words Which Come Forth Out Of Their Mouths, The Thoughts Which Make The Furniture Of Their Minds; Would Any Amount Of Wealth Be Worth Having With The Condition That One Was To Become Just Like These People By Having It?

Philistinism! - We Have Not The Expression In English. Perhaps We Have Not The Word Because We Have So Much Of The Thing.

Indeed There Can Be No More Useful Help For Discovering What Poetry Belongs To The Class Of The Truly Excellent, And Can Therefore Do Us Most Good, Than To Have Always In One's Mind Lines And Expressions Of The Great Masters, And To Apply Them As A Touchstone To Other Poetry.

But Thou, My Son, Study To Make Prevail One Colour In Thy Life, The Hue Of Truth.

Fate Gave, What Chance Shall Not Control, His Sad Lucidity Of Soul.

The Best Poetry Will Be Found To Have A Power Of Forming, Sustaining, And Delighting Us, As Nothing Else Can.

Without Poetry Our Science Will Appear Incomplete, And Most Of What Now Passes With Us For Religion And Philosophy Will Be Replaced By Poetry.

Science And Religion

Yes! In The Sea Of Life Enisled, With Echoing Straits Between Us Thrown, Dotting The Shoreless Watery Wild, We Mortal Millions Live Alone.

Thou Waitest For The Spark From Heaven! And We, Light Half-believers In Our Casual Deeds . . . Who Hesitate And Falter Life Away, And Lose Tomorrow The Ground Won Today- Ah, Do Not We, Wanderer, Await It Too?

Six Years-six Little Years-six Drops Of Time.

Culture Is The Passion For Sweetness And Light, And (what Is More) The Passion For Making Them Prevail.

The Same Heart Beats In Every Human Breast.

Know, Man Hath All Which Nature Hath, But More, And In That More Lie All His Hopes Of Good.

Others Abide Our Question. Thou Art Free. We Ask And Ask. Thou Smilest And Art Still, Out-topping Knowledge.

For What Wears Out The Life Of Mortal Men? 'tis That From Change To Change Their Being Rolls; Tis That Repeated Shocks, Again, Again, Exhaust The Energy Of Strongest Souls And Numb The Elastic Powers.

The Sea Of Faith Was Once, Too, At The Full, And Round Earth's Shore Lay Like The Folds Of A Bright Girdle Furled. But Now I Only Hear Its Melancholy, Long, Withdrawing Roar, Retreating, To The Breath Of The Night-wind, Down The Vast Edges Drear And Naked Shingles Of The World.

Time, So Complain'd Of, Who To No One Man Shows Partiality, Brings Round To All Men Some Undimm'd Hours.

The Future Of Poetry Is Immense, Because In Poetry, Where It Is Worthy Of Its High Destinies, Our Race, As Time Goes On, Will Find An Ever Surer And Surer Stay ... More And More Mankind Will Discover That We Have To Turn To Poetry To Interpret Life For Us, To Console Us, To Sustain Us.

For Poetry The Idea Is Everything; The Rest Is A World Of Illusion.

Man Errs Not That He Deems His Welfare His True Aim, He Errs Because He Dreams The World Does But Exist That Welfare To Bestow.

Our Inequality Materializes Our Upper Class, Vulgarizes Our Middle Class, Brutalizes Our Lower Class.

English Civilization The Humanizing, The Bringing Into One Harmonious And Truly Humane Life, Of The Whole Body Of English Society That Is What Interests Me.

The "hairy Quadruped Furnished With A Tail And, Pointed Ears, Probably Arboreal In His Habits," This Good Fellow Carried Hidden In His Nature, Apparently, Something Destined To Develop Into A Necessity For Humane Letters.

Home Of Lost Causes, And Forsaken Beliefs, And Unpopular Names, And Impossible Loyalties!

Resolve To Be Thyself: And Know That He Who Finds Himself, Loses His Misery.

To Thee Only God Granted A Heart Ever New: To All Always Open; To All Always True.

Poetry Is Simply The Most Beautiful, Impressive, And Widely Effective Mode Of Saying Things.

Tis Not To See The World As From A Height, With Rapt Prophetic Eyes, And Heart Profoundly Stirred; And Weep, And Feel The Fullness Of The Past, The Years That Are Not More.

And See All Sights From Pole To Pole, And Glance, And Nod, And Hustle By; And Never Once Possess Our Soul Before We Die.

Unquiet Souls. In The Dark Fermentation Of Earth, In The Never Idle Workshop Of Nature, In The Eternal Movement, Yea Shall Find Yourselves Again.

Ah, Love, Let Us Be True To One Another!

Style ... Is A Peculiar Recasting And Heightening, Under A Certain Condition Of Spiritual Excitement, Of What A Man Has To Say, In Such A Manner As To Add Dignity And Distinction To It.

Weep Bitterly Over The Dead, For He Is Worthy, And Then Comfort Thyself; Drive Heaviness Away: Thou Shall Not Do Him Good, But Hurt Thyself.

Now The Great Winds Shoreward Blow Now The Salt Tides Seaward Flow Now The Wild White Horses Play Champ And Chafe And Toss In The Spray.

But So Many Books Thou Readest, But So Many Schemes Thou Breedest, But So Many Wishes Feedest, That Thy Poor Head Almost Turns.

All The Biblical Miracles Will At Last Disappear With The Progress Of Science.

The Will Is Free; Strong Is The Soul, And Wise, And Beautiful; The Seeds Of Godlike Power Are In Us Still; Gods Are We, Bards, Saints, Heroes, If We Will!

The Pursuit Of Perfection, Then, Is The Pursuit Of Sweetness And Light.

Whoever Sets Himself To See Things As They Are Will Find Himself One Of A Very Small Circle But It Is Only By This Small Circle Resolutely Doing Its Own Work That Adequate Ideas Will Ever Get Current At All.

Ah! Two Desires Toss About The Poet's Feverish Blood; One Drives Him To The World Without, And One To Solitude.

How Many Minds--almost All The Great Ones--were Formed In Secrecy And Solitude!

For Poetry The Idea Is Everything; The Rest Is A World Of Illusion, Of Divine Illusion. Poetry Attaches Its Emotion To The Idea; The Idea Is The Fact. The Strongest Part Of Our Religion Today Is Its Unconscious Poetry.

Culture Is To Know The Best That Has Been Said And Thought In The World.

If One Were Searching For The Best Means To Efface And Kill In A Whole Nation The Discipline Of Self-respect, The Feeling For What Is Elevated, He Could Do No Better Than Take The American Newspapers.

They... Who Await. No Gifts From Chance, Have Conquered Fate.

The Difference Between Genuine Poetry And The Poetry Of Dryden, Pope, And All Their School, Is Briefly This: Their Poetry Is Conceived And Composed In Their Wits, Genuine Poetry Is Conceived And Composed In The Soul.

The Uppermost Idea With Hellenism Is To See Things As They Really Are; The Uppermost Ideas With Hebraism Is Conduct And Obedience.nothing Can Do Away With This Ineffaceable Difference. The Greek Quarrel With The Body And Its Desires Is, That They Hinder Right Thinking; The Hebrew Quarrel With Them Is, That They Hinder Right Acting.

To The Bible Men Will Return; And Why? Because They Cannot Do Without It.

Coleridge: Poet And Philosopher Wrecked In A Mist Of Opium.

Journalism Is Literature In A Hurry.

One Thing Only Has Been Lent To Youth And Age In Common--discontent.

Come To Me In My Dreams, And Then By Day I Shall Be Well Again. For Then The Night Will More Than Pay The Hopeless Longing Of The Day.

And Each Day Brings It's Pretty Dust, Our Soon-choked Souls To Fll And We Forget Because We Must, And Not Because We Will.

For Eager Teachers Seized My Youth, Pruned My Faith And Trimmed My Fire. Showed Me The High, White Star Of Truth, There Bade Me Gaze And There Aspire.

Weary Of Myself, And Sick Of Asking What I Am, And What I Ought To Be, At This Vessel's Prow I Stand, Which Bears Me Forwards, Forwards, O'er The Starlit Sea.

Most Men Eddy About Here And There-eat And Drink, Chatter And Love And Hate, Gather And Squander, Are Raised Aloft, Are Hurled In The Dust, Striving Blindly, Achieving Nothing; And Then They Die- Perish;-and No One Asks Who Or What They Have Been.

Joy Comes And Goes, Hope Ebbs And Flows Like The Wave; Change Doth Unknit The Tranquil Strength Of Men. Love Tends Life A Little Grace, A Few Sad Smiles; And Then, Both Are Laid In One Cold Place, In The Grave.

And Amongst Us One, Who Most Has Suffer'd, Takes Dejectedly His Seat Upon The Intellectual Throne.

Dreams Dawn And Fly: Friends Smile And Die, Like Spring Flowers. Our Vaunted Life Is One Long Funeral. Men Dig Graves, With Bitter Tears, For Their Dead Hopes; And All, Mazed With Doubts, And Sick With Fears, Count The Hours.

What Is It To Grow Old? Is It To Lose The Glory Of The Form, The Lustre Of The Eye? Is It For Beauty To Forego Her Wreath? Yes; But Not This Alone.

Physician Of The Iron Age, Goethe Has Done His Pilgrimage. He Took The Suffering Human Race, He Read Each Wound, Each Weakness Clear -- And Struck His Finger On The Place, And Said -- Thou Ailest Here, And Here.

I Knew The Mass Of Men Conceal'd Their Thoughts, For Fear That If Reveal'd They Would By Other Men Be Met With Blank Indifference.

Still Bent To Make Some Port He Knows Not Where, Still Standing For Some False Impossible Shore.

Poetry Interprets In Two Ways: It Interprets By Expressing, With Magical Felicity, The Physiognomy And Movements Of The Outward World; And It Interprets By Expressing, With Inspired Conviction, The Ideas And Laws Of The Inward World Of Man's Moral And Spiritual Nature. In Other Words, Poetry Is Interpretative Both By Having Natural Magic In It, And By Having Moral Profundity.

Use Your Gifts Faithfully, And They Shall Be Enlarged; Practice What You Know, And You Shall Attain To Higher Knowledge.

The Eloquent Voice Of Our Century Uttered, Shortly Before Leaving The World, A Warning Cry Against The "anglo- Saxon Contagion.

Greatness Is A Spiritual Condition Worthy To Excite Love, Interest, And Admiration; And The Outward Proof Of Possessing Greatness Is That We Excite Love, Interest, And Admiration.

What Actions Are The Most Excellent? Those, Certainly, Which Most Powerfully Appeal To The Great Primary Human Affections: To Those Elementary Feelings Which Subsist Permanently In The Race, And Which Are Independent Of Time. These Feelings Are Permanent And The Same; That Which Interests Them Is Permanent And The Same Also.

Conduct Is Three-fourths Of Our Life And Its Largest Concern.

What Shelter To Grow Ripe Is Ours? What Leisure To Grow Wise?

The Kings Of Modern Thought Are Dumb.

I Am Bound By My Own Definition Of Criticism : A Disinterested Endeavour To Learn And Propagate The Best That Is Known And Thought In The World.

Sand-strewn Caverns, Cool And Deep, Where The Winds Are All Asleep; Where The Spent Lights Quiver And Gleam; Where The Salt Weed Sways In The Stream.

I Do Not Believe Today Everything I Believed Yesterday I Wonder Will I Believe Tomorrow Everything I Believe Today.

Thought And Science Follow Their Own Law Of Development; They Are Slowly Elaborated In The Growth And Forward Pressure Of Humanity, In What Shakespeare Calls ...the Prophetic Soul, Of The Wide World Dreaming On Things To Come.

Let The Long Contention Cease! / Geese Are Swans, And Swans Are Geese.

Too Quick Despairer, Wherefore Wilt Thou Go? Soon Will The High Midsummer Pomps Come On, Soon Will The Musk Carnations Break And Swell.

But There Remains The Question: What Righteousness Really Is. The Method And Secret And Sweet Reasonableness Of Jesus.

Beautiful City! . . . Spreading Her Gardens To The Moonlight, And Whispering From Her Towers The Last Enchantments Of The Middle Age . . . Her Ineffable Charm. . . . Adorable Dreamer, Whose Heart Has Been So Romantic!

If Paris That Brief Flight Allow, My Humble Tomb Explore! It Bears: Eternity, Be Thou My Refuge! And No More.

What Really Dissatisfies In American Civilisation Is The Want Of The Interesting, A Want Due Chiefly To The Want Of Those Two Great Elements Of The Interesting, Which Are Elevation And Beauty.

The World Hath Failed To Impart The Joy Our Youth Forebodes; Failed To Fill Up The Void Which In Our Breasts We Bear.

Is It So Small A Thing To Have Enjoyed The Sun.

The Governing Idea Of Hellenism Is Spontaneity Of Consciousness ; That Of Hebraism, Strictness Of Conscience .

The Sea Is Calm Tonight. 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.

It Is Not In The Outward And Visible World Of Material Life That The Celtic Genius Of Wales Or Ireland Can At This Day Hope To Count For Much; It Is In The Inward World Of Thought And Science.what It Has Been, What Is Has Done, What It Will Be Or Will Do, As A Matter Of Modern Politics.

With Aching Hands And Bleeding Feet We Dig And Heap, Lay Stone On Stone; We Bear The Burden And The Heat Of The Long Day, And Wish 'twere Done. Not Till The Hours Of Light Return All We Have Built Do We Discern.

The Need Of Expansion Is As Genuine An Instinct In Man As The Need In A Plant For The Light, Or The Need In Man Himself For Going Upright. The Love Of Liberty Is Simply The Instinct In Man For Expansion.

Ah Love, Let Us Be True To One Another, Which Seems To Lie Before Us Like A Land Of Dreams; So Various, So Beautiful, So New, Hath Really Neither Joy Nor Love Nor Life.

Hither And Thither Spins The Wind-borne Mirroring Soul, A Thousand Glimpses Wins, And Never Sees A Whole.

All This I Bear, For, What I Seek, I Know: Peace, Peace Is What I Seek, And Public Calm: Endless Extinction Of Unhappy Hates.

It Is Almost Impossible To Exaggerate The Proneness Of The Human Mind To Take Miracles As Evidence, And To Seek For Miracles As Evidence.

And Thou, Who Didst The Stars And Sunbeams Know, Self-school'd, Self-scann'd, Self-honour'd, Self-secure, Didst Tread On Earth Unguess'd At. Better So! All Pains The Immortal Spirit Must Endure, All Weakness Which Impairs, All Griefs Which Bow, Find Their Sole Speech In That Victorious Brow.

The Heart Less Bounding At Emotion New, The Hope, Once Crushed, Less Quick To Spring Again.

The Brave, Impetuous Heart Yields Everywhere To The Subtle, Contriving Head.

Culture Looks Beyond Machinery, Culture Hates Hatred; Culture Has One Great Passion, The Passion For Sweetness And Light.

Force And Right Are The Governors Of This World; Force Till Right Is Ready.

We Must Hold Fast To The Austere But True Doctrine As To What Really Governs Politics And Saves Or Destroys States. Having In Mind Things True, Things Elevated, Things Just, Things Pure, Things Amiable, Things Of Good Report; Having These In Mind, Studying And Loving These, Is What Saves States.

Miracles Do Not Happen.

Poetry; A Criticism Of Life Under The Conditions Fixed For Such A Criticism By The Laws Of Poetic Truth And Poetic Beauty.

That Which In England We Call The Middle Class Is In America Virtually The Nation.

O Born In Days When Wits Were Fresh And Clear, And Life Ran Gaily As The Sparkling Thames; Before This Strange Disease Of Modern Life, With Its Sick Hurry, Its Divided Aims, Its Heads O'ertax'd, Its Palsied Hearts, Was Rife.

Philistine Must Have Originally Meant, In The Mind Of Those Who Invented The Nickname, A Strong, Dogged, Unenlightened Opponent Of The Chosen People, Of The Children Of The Light.

On The Breast Of That Huge Mississippi Of Falsehood Called History, A Foam-bell More Or Less Is No Consequence.

Because Thou Must Not Dream, Thou Need Not Despair.

Art Still Has Truth. Take Refuge There.

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!

Below The Surface Stream, Shallow And Light, Of What We Say And Feel Below The Stream, As Light, Of What We Think We Feel, There Flows With Noiseless Current, Strong, Obscure And Deep, The Central Stream Of What We Feel Indeed.

Business Could Not Make Dull, Nor Passion Wild; Who Saw Life Steadily, And Saw It Whole.

The Interpretations Of Science Do Not Give Us This Intimate Sense Of Objects As The Interpretations Of Poetry Give It; They Appeal To A Limited Faculty, And Not To The Whole Man. It Is Not Linnaeus Or Cavendish Or Cuvier Who Gives Us The True Sense Of Animals, Or Water, Or Plants, Who Seizes Their Secret For Us, Who Makes Us Participate In Their Life; It Is Shakspeare [sic] … Wordsworth … Keats … Chateaubriand … Senancour.

France, Famed In All Great Arts, In None Supreme.

Religion--that Voice Of The Deepest Human Experience.

Human Experience

Nature's Great Law, And The Law Of All Men's Minds? To Its Own Impulse Every Creature Stirs: Live By Thy Light, And Earth Will Live By Hers.

Youth Dreams A Bliss On This Side Of Death. It Dreams A Rest, If Not More Deep, More Grateful Than This Marble Sleep; It Hears A Voice Within It Tell: Calm's Not Life's Crown, Though Calm Is Well. 'tis All Perhaps Which Man Acquires, But 'tis Not What Our Youth Desires.

This Strange Disease Of Modern Life, With Its Sick Hurry, Its Divided Aims.

Spare Me The Whispering, Crowded Room, The Friends Who Come And Gape And Go, The Ceremonious Air Of Gloom - All, Which Makes Death A Hideous Show.

He Will Find One English Book And One Only, Where, As In The "iliad" Itself, Perfect Plainness Of Speech Is Allied With Perfect Nobleness; And That Book Is The Bible.

Our Society Distributes Itself Into Barbarians, Philistines And Populace; And America Is Just Ourselves With The Barbarians Quite Left Out, And The Populace Nearly.

History - A Vast Mississippi Of Falsehoods

Culture Is Properly Described As The Love Of Perfection; It Is A Study Of Perfection.

Morality Represents For Everybody A Thoroughly Definite And Ascertained Idea: The Idea Of Human Conduct Regulated In A Certain Manner.

Fortime, Not Corydon, Hath Conquered Thee.

The Freethinking Of One Age Is The Common Sense Of The Next.

Inequality Has The Natural And Necessary Effect, Under The Present Circumstances, Of Materializing Our Upper Class, Vulgarizing Our Middle Class, And Brutalizing Our Lower Class.

For The Creation Of A Masterwork Of Literature Two Powers Must Concur, The Power Of The Man And The Power Of The Moment, And The Man Is Not Enough Without The Moment.

To Have The Sense Of Creative Activity Is The Great Happiness And The Great Proof Of Being Alive.

Nothing Could Moderate, In The Bosom Of The Great English Middle Class, Their Passionate, Absorbing, Almost Blood-thirsty Clinging To Life.

Alas! Is Even Love Too Weak To Unlock The Heart, And Let It Speak?

The Eternal Not Ourselves That Makes For Righteousness.

One Must, I Think, Be Struck More And More The Longer One Lives, To Find How Much In Our Present Society A Man's Life Of Each Day Depends For Its Solidity And Value Upon Whether He Reads During That Day, And Far More Still On What He Reads During It.

Waiting For The Spark From Heaven To Fall.

Calm Soul Of All Things! Make It Mine To Feel, Amid The City's Jar, That There Abides A Peace Of Thine, Man Did Not Make, And Cannot Mar! The Will To Neither Strive Nor Cry, The Power To Feel What Others Give! Calm, Calm Me More! Nor Let Me Die Before I Have Begun To Live.

Ah, Love, Let Us Be True To One Another! For The World, Which Seems To Lie Before Us Like A Land Of Dreams, So Various, So Beautiful, So New, Hath Really Neither Joy, Nor Love, Nor Light, Nor Certitude, Nor Peace, Nor Help For Pain; And We Are Here As On A Darkling Plain Swept With Confused Alarms Of Struggle And Flight, Where Ignorant Armies Clash By Night.

We, Peopling The Void Air, Make Gods To Whom To Impute The Ills We Ought To Bear; With God And Fate To Rail At, Suffering Easily.

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Hilda Doolittle

Joanna Noelle Levesque

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