A Wish by Matthew Arnold. Part 2 of 3. To shake his sapient head and give The ill he cannot cure a name. Nor fetch, to take the accustomed toll Of the poor sinner bound for death, His brother doctor of the soul, To canvass with official breath The future and its viewless things - That undiscovered mystery Which one who feels death's winnowing wings Must need read clearer, sure, than he! Bring none of these; but let me be, While all around in silence lies, Moved to the window near, and see Once more before my dying eyes Bathed in the sacred dew of morn The wide aerial landscape spread - The world which was ere I was born, The world which lasts when I am dead.