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To a Friend

To a Friend- Matthew Arnold

Who prop, thou ask'st in these bad days, my mind?--
He much, the old man, who, clearest-souled of men,
Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,

First Loss

First Loss

Ah! who'll e'er those days restore,
Those bright days of early love
Who'll one hour again concede,
Of that time so fondly cherish'd!

Silently my wounds I feed,

The Dance of Death

The Dance of Death

The warder looks down at the mid hour of night,
On the tombs that lie scatter'd below:
The moon fills the place with her silvery light,

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