# The poetical works of Matthew Arnold/The Youth of Man

THE YOUTH OF MAN.
We, O Nature, depart: Thou survivest us! This, This, I know, is the law. Yes! but, more than this, Thou who seest us die Seest us change while we live; Seest our dreams, one by one, Seest our errors depart; Watchest us, Nature! throughout Mild and inscrutably calm.
Well for us that we change! Well for us that the power Which in our morning prime Saw the mistakes of our youth, Sweet, and forgiving, and good, Sees the contrition of age!
Behold, O Nature, this pair! See them to-night where they stand, Not with the halo of youth Crowning their brows with its light, Not with the sunshine of hope, Not with the rapture of spring, ​Which they had of old, when they stood Years ago at my side In this self-same garden, and said,— "We are young, and the world is ours; Man, man is king of the world! Fools that these mystics are Who prate of Nature! but she Hath neither beauty, nor warmth, Nor life, nor emotion, nor power. But man has a thousand gifts, And the generous dreamer invests The senseless world with them all. Nature is nothing; her charm Lives in our eyes which can paint, Lives in our hearts which can feel."
Thou, O Nature, wast mute, Mute as of old! Days flew, Days and years; and Time With the ceaseless stroke of his wings Brushed off the bloom from their soul. Clouded and dim grew their eye, Languid their heart—for youth Quickened its pulses no more. Slowly, within the walls Of an ever-narrowing world, They drooped, they grew blind, they grew old. Thee, and their youth in thee, Nature! they saw no more.
Murmur of living, Stir of existence, Soul of the world! Make, oh, make yourselves felt ​To the dying spirit of youth! Come, like the breath of the spring! Leave not a human soul To grow old in darkness and pain! Only the living can feel you, But leave us not while we live!
Here they stand to-night,— Here, where this gray balustrade Crowns the still valley; behind In the castled house with its woods Which sheltered their childhood; the sun On its ivied windows; a scent From the gray-walled gardens, a breath Of the fragrant stock and the pink, Perfumes the evening air. Their children play on the lawns. They stand and listen; they hear The children's shouts, and at times, Faintly, the bark of a dog From a distant farm in the hills. Nothing besides! in front The wide, wide valley outspreads To the dim horizon, reposed In the twilight, and bathed in dew, Cornfield and hamlet and copse Darkening fast; but a light, Far off, a glory of day, Still plays on the city-spires; And there in the dusk by the walls, With the gray mist marking its course Through the silent, flowery land, On, to the plains, to the sea, Floats the imperial stream.
​Well I know what they feel! They gaze, and the evening wind Plays on their faces; they gaze,— Airs from the Eden of youth Awake and stir in their soul; The past returns: they feel What they are, alas! what they were. They, not Nature, are changed. Well I know what they feel!
Hush, for tears Begin to steal to their eyes! Hush, for fruit Grows from such sorrow as theirs!
And they remember, With piercing, untold anguish, The proud boasting of their youth. And they feel how Nature was fair. And the mists of delusion, And the scales of habit, Fall away from their eyes; And they see, for a moment, Stretching out like the desert In its weary, unprofitable length, Their faded, ignoble lives.
While the locks are yet brown on thy head, While the soul still looks through thine eyes, While the heart still pours The mantling blood to thy cheek, Sink, O youth, in thy soul! Yearn to the greatness of Nature; Rally the good in the depths of thyself!