Philomena

Matthew Arnold (1822–1888)

HARK! ah, the nightingale!

The tawny-throated!

Hark! from that moonlit cedar what a burst!

What triumph! hark,—what pain!

O wanderer from a Grecian shore,

Still,—after many years, in distant lands,—

Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain

That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, Old-world pain,—

Say, will it never heal?

And can this fragrant lawn,

With its cool trees, and night,

And the sweet, tranquil Thames,

And the moonshine, and the dew,

To thy racked heart and brain

Afford no balm?

Dost thou to-night behold,

Here, through the moonlight on this English grass,

The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?

Dost thou again peruse,

With hot cheeks and seared eyes,

The too clear web, and thy dumb sister’s shame?

Dost thou once more essay

Thy flight; and feel come over thee,

Poor fugitive! the feathery change

Once more; and once more make resound,

With love and hate, triumph and agony,

Lone Daulis, and the high Cephisian vale?

Listen, Eugenia,—

How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves!

Again—thou hearest!

Eternal passion!

Eternal pain!