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.