Explore "Philomela32" by Matthew Arnold on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Hark! ah, the Nightingale!
The tawny-throated!
Hark! from that moonlit cedar what a burst!
What triumph! hark -- what pain!
O Wanderer from a Grecian shore, / Still, after many years, in distant lands, / Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain / That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain --
Say, will it never heal?
And can this fragrant lawn / With its cool trees, and night, / And the sweet, tranquil Thames, / And moonshine, and the dew, / To thy rack'd heart and brain / Afford no balm?
Dost thou to-night behold / Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, / The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?
Dost thou again peruse / With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes / The too clear web, and thy dumb Sister's shame?
Dost thou once more assay / Thy flight, and feel come over thee, / Poor Fugitive, the feathery change / Once more, and once more seem to make resound / With love and hate, triumph and agony, / Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale?
Listen, Eugenia --
How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves!
Again -- thou hearest!
Eternal Passion!
Eternal Pain!