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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=37825" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Buried Life</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,<br>Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!<br>I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.<br>Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,<br>We know, we know that we can smile!<br>But there's a something in this breast,<br>To which thy light words bring no rest,<br>And thy gay smiles no anodyne.<br>Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,<br>And turn those limpid eyes on mine,<br>And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alas! is even love too weak<br>To unlock the heart, and let it speak?<br>Are even lovers powerless to reveal<br>To one another what indeed they feel?<br>I knew the mass of men conceal'd<br>Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd<br>They would by other men be met<br>With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;<br>I knew they lived and moved<br>Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest<br>Of men, and alien to themselves--and yet<br>The same heart beats in every human breast!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But we, my love!--doth a like spell benumb<br>Our hearts, our voices?--must we too be dumb?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah! well for us, if even we,<br>Even for a moment, can get free<br>Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd;<br>For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fate, which foresaw<br>How frivolous a baby man would be--<br>By what distractions he would be possess'd,<br>How he would pour himself in every strife,<br>And well-nigh change his own identity--<br>That it might keep from his capricious play<br>His genuine self, and force him to obey<br>Even in his own despite his being's law,<br>Bade through the deep recesses of our breast<br>The unregarded river of our life<br>Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;<br>And that we should not see<br>The buried stream, and seem to be<br>Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,<br>Though driving on with it eternally.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But often, in the world's most crowded streets,<br>But often, in the din of strife,<br>There rises an unspeakable desire<br>After the knowledge of our buried life;<br>A thirst to spend our fire and restless force<br>In tracking out our true, original course;<br>A longing to inquire<br>Into the mystery of this heart which beats<br>So wild, so deep in us--to know<br>Whence our lives come and where they go.<br>And many a man in his own breast then delves,<br>But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.<br>And we have been on many thousand lines,<br>And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;<br>But hardly have we, for one little hour,<br>Been on our own line, have we been ourselves--<br>Hardly had skill to utter one of all<br>The nameless feelings that course through our breast,<br>But they course on for ever unexpress'd.<br>And long we try in vain to speak and act<br>Our hidden self, and what we say and do<br>Is eloquent, is well--but 'tis not true!<br>And then we will no more be rack'd<br>With inward striving, and demand<br>Of all the thousand nothings of the hour<br>Their stupefying power;<br>Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!<br>Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,<br>From the soul's subterranean depth upborne<br>As from an infinitely distant land,<br>Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey<br>A melancholy into all our day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Only--but this is rare--<br>When a beloved hand is laid in ours,<br>When, jaded with the rush and glare<br>Of the interminable hours,<br>Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,<br>When our world-deafen'd ear<br>Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd--<br>A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,<br>And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.<br>The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,<br>And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.<br>A man becomes aware of his life's flow,<br>And hears its winding murmur; and he sees<br>The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And there arrives a lull in the hot race<br>Wherein he doth for ever chase<br>That flying and elusive shadow, rest.<br>An air of coolness plays upon his face,<br>And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.<br>And then he thinks he knows<br>The hills where his life rose,<br>And the sea where it goes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Matthew+Arnold">Matthew Arnold</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=37825" data-title="The Buried Life de Matthew Arnold" data-description="Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,/Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!/I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll./Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,/We know, we know that we can smile!/But there's a something in this breast,/To which t..."></div>
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