The Poetry Corner

Fragment Of Chorus Of A Dejaneira

By Matthew Arnold

O frivolous mind of man, Light ignorance, and hurrying, unsure thoughts, Though man bewails you not, How I bewail you! Little in your prosperity Do you seek counsel of the Gods. Proud, ignorant, self-adored, you live alone. In profound silence stern Among their savage gorges and cold springs Unvisited remain The great oracular shrines. Thither in your adversity Do you betake yourselves for light, But strangely misinterpret all you hear. For you will not put on New hearts with the inquirers holy robe, And purged, considerate minds. And him on whom, at the end Of toil and dolour untold, The Gods have said that repose At last shall descend undisturbd, Him you expect to behold In an easy old age, in a happy home; No end but this you praise. But him, on whom, in the prime Of life, with vigour undimmd, With unspent mind, and a soul Unworn, undebased, undecayd, Mournfully grating, the gates Of the city of death have for ever closed, Him, I count him, well-starrd.