To W. A.

To W. A.

The torrent has its quiet pool,
 Its sylvan spot the mountain brown,
Where daisies grow and lambs lie down
 When Summer eves are cool.

Thy soul is full of graves thought,
Of mighty philosophic themes,
Stern truth and wild poetic dreams,
 And actions duty-taught.

Yet has it still its one green place,
Wherein one little lamb lies down,
And, sweeter than the daisy crown,
 The thoughts that give it grace.

One quiet spot that knows no shock
Of falling waves that crash and whirl,
Where, safe as undiscover'd pearl,
 There lies our little “Joc.”

Thou said'st thy father-love was such
As man's greaTheart might fitly know
When gentle woman bids it glow,
 And thrills to each light touch.

But holier still the love, I said,
That draws thee, with a fresh delight,
To those sweet eyes so calmly bright,
 That little golden head.

Unselfish love, ennobling, mild,
And pure from passion's stain, I ween,
As that fair brow, late washen clean,
 Of thine own christen'd child.
Author of original: 
Matthew Arnold
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