MATTHEW ARNOLD
Lose all our present state, And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose?
Not much, I know, you prize What pleasures may be had, Who look on life with eyes Estranged, like mine, and sad: And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you ;
Who's loth to leave this life Which to him little yields: His hard-task'd sunburnt wife, His of ten-labour J d fields; The boors with whom he talk'd, the country spots he knew.
But thou, because thou hear'st Men scoff at Heaven and Fate; Because the gods thou fear'st Fail to make blest thy state, Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are.
I say, Fear not! life still Leaves human effort scope. But, since life teems with ill, Nurse no extravagant hope. Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair.
��The Strayed Reveller to Ulysses
HE Gods are happy. They turn on all sides Their shining eyes: And see, below them, The Earth, and men.
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