Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
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Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
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Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
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Matthew Arnold
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Matthew Arnold
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Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
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Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Each on his own strict line we move,
And some find death ere they find love;
So far apart their lives are thrown
From the twin soul which halves their own.
And sometimes, by still harder fate,
The lovers meet, but meet too late.
—Thy heart is mine!—True, true! ah, true!
—Then, love, thy hand!—Ah no! adieu!