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— William Blake

Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?

Or wilt thou go ask the Mole:

Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod?

Or Love in a golden bowl?

…

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noun

One who, or that which, accelerates.

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THE VOICE

40 lines
Matthew Arnold·1822–1888
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s the kindling glances,Queen-like and clear,Which the bright moon lancesFrom her tranquil sphereAt the sleepless watersOf a lonely mere,On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully,Shiver and die. As the tears of sorrowMothers have shed--Prayers that to-morrowShall in vain be spedWhen the flower they flow forLies frozen and dead--Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast,Bringing no rest. Like bright waves that fallWith a lifelike motionOn the lifeless margin of the sparkling Ocean;A wild rose climbing up a mouldering wall--A gush of sunbeams through a ruin'd hall--Strains of glad music at a funeral--So sad, and with so wild a startTo this deep-sober'd heart,So anxiously and painfully,So drearily and doubtfully,And oh, with such intolerable changeOf thought, such contrast strange,O unforgotten voice, thy accents come,Like wanderers from the world's extremity,Unto their ancient home! In vain, all, all in vain,They beat upon mine ear again,Those melancholy tones so sweet and still.Those lute-like tones which in the bygone yearDid steal into mine ear--Blew such a thrilling summons to my will,Yet could not shake it;Made my tost heart its very life-blood spill,Yet could not break it.
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