Main text
Geist's Grave Matthew Arnold (1822-88) Four years!--and didst thou stay above The ground, which hides thee now, but four? And all that life, and all that love, Were crowded, Geist! into no more? Only four years those winning ways, Which make me for thy presence yearn, Call'd us to pet thee or to praise, Dear little friend! at every turn? That loving heart, that patient soul, Had they indeed no longer span, To run their course, and reach their goal, And read their homily to man? That liquid, melancholy eye, From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs Seem'd surging the Virgilian cry, [...]