The best poetry will be found to have a power of forming, sustaining, and delighting us, as nothing else can. - Matthew Arnold

And we forget because we must
And not because we will

Matthew Arnold, ‘Absence’ (1852)

And you, ye stars,
Who slowly begin to marshal,
As of old, the fields of heaven,
Your distant, melancholy lines!
Have you, too, survived yourselves?
Are you, too, what I fear to become?
You, too, once lived;
You, too, moved joyfully
Among august companions,
In an older world, peopled by Gods,
In a mightier order,
The radiant, rejoicing, intelligent Sons of Heaven.
But now, ye kindle
Your lonely, cold-shining lights,
Unwilling lingerers
In the heavenly wilderness,
For a younger, ignoble world;
And renew, by necessity,
Night after night your courses,
In echoing, unneared silence,
Above a race you know not — Uncaring and undelighted,
Without friend and without home;
Weary like us, though not
Weary with our weariness.

The slightest deviation from the line of clear conviction — the least turning to left or right in order to cocker a prejudice or please an audience or flatter a class, showed a want of delicacy — a preference of present popularity to permanent self-respect — which he could never have indulged in himself, and with difficulty tolerated in others. He had nothing but contempt for “philosophical politicians with a turn for swimming with the stream, and philosophical divines with the same turn.