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Modern Love XVII: At Dinner She Is Hostess

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Written by George Meredith

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 At dinner, she is hostess, I am host.
Went the feast ever cheerfuller? She keeps The Topic over intellectual deeps In buoyancy afloat.
They see no ghost.
With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball: It is in truth a most contagious game: HIDING THE SKELETON, shall be its name.
Such play as this the devils might appal! But here's the greater wonder; in that we, Enamoured of an acting nought can tire, Each other, like true hypocrites, admire; Warm-lighted looks, Love's ephemerioe, Shoot gaily o'er the dishes and the wine.
We waken envy of our happy lot.
Fast, sweet, and golden, shows the marriage-knot.
Dear guests, you now have seen Love's corpse-light shine.

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