Matthew Arnold (1822–1888)

STREW on her roses, roses,

And never a spray of yew!

In quiet she reposes;

Ah! would that I did too.

Her mirth the world required;

She bathed it in smiles of glee.

But her heart was tired, tired,

And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning,

In mazes of heat and sound;

But for peace her soul was yearning,

And now peace laps her round.

Her cabin’d, ample spirit,

It flutter’d and fail’d for breath;

To-night it doth inherit

The vasty hall of death.