• Only--but this is rare--
    When a beloved hand is laid in ours,
    When, jaded with the rush and glare
    Of the interminable hours,
    Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,
    When our world-deafen'd ear
    Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd--
    A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
    And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
    The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
    And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.
    A man becomes aware of his life's flow,
    And hears its winding murmur; and he sees
    The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.

    Matthew Arnold (1994). “Dover Beach and Other Poems”, p.25, Courier Corporation