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
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
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Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold
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Matthew Arnold
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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
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
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
Matthew Arnold
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Matthew Arnold
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Matthew Arnold
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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
Because thou hast believed, the wheels of life
Stand never idle, but go always round;
Not by their hands, who vex the patient ground,
Moved only; but by genius, in the strife
Of all its chafing torrents after thaw,
Urged; and to feed whose movement, spinning sand,
The feeble sons of pleasure set their hand;
And, in this vision of the general law,
Hast labour'd, but with purpose; hast become
Laborious, persevering, serious, firm—
For this, thy track, across the fretful foam
Of vehement actions without scope or term,
Call'd history, keeps a splendour; due to wit,
Which saw one clue to life, and follow'd it.