MATTHEW ARNOLD
759 Requiescat
STREW on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew. In quiet she reposes:
Ah! would that I did too.
Her mirth the world required: She bathed it in smiles of glee.
But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be.
Her life was turning, turning,
In mazes of heat and sound. But for peace her soul was yearning,
And now peace laps her round.
Her cabin'd, ample Spirit,
It flutter'd and faiPd for breath.
To-night it doth inherit The vasty hall of Death.
760 The Scholar-Gipsy
GO, for they call you, Shepherd, from the hill; Go, Shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes: No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed, Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, Nor the cropp'd grasses shoot another head.
But when the fields are still, And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest, And only the white sheep are sometimes seen Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch'd green; Come, Shepherd, and again begin the quest.
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