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Best Famous George Eliot Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous George Eliot poems. This is a select list of the best famous George Eliot poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous George Eliot poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of George Eliot poems.

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by Craig Raine | |


 'and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence'
 -- George Eliot, Middlemarch

Dead dandelions, bald as drumsticks,
swaying by the roadside

like Hare Krishna pilgrims
bowing to the Juggernaut.
They have given up everything.
Gold gone and their silver gone, humbled with dust, hollow, their milky bodies tan to the colour of annas.
The wind changes their identity: slender Giacomettis, Doré's convicts, Rodin's burghers of Calais with five bowed heads and the weight of serrated keys .
They wither into mystery, waiting to find out why they are, patiently, before nirvana when the rain comes down like vitriol.

by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Margaret Fuller Slack

 I would have been as great as George Eliot
But for an untoward fate.
For look at the photograph of me made by Penniwit, Chin resting on hand, and deep-set eyes -- Gray, too, and far-searching.
But there was the old, old problem: Should it be celibacy, matrimony or unchastity? Then John Slack, the rich druggist, wooed me, Luring me with the promise of leisure for my novel, And I married him, giving birth to eight children, And had no time to write.
It was all over with me, anyway, When I ran the needle in my hand While washing the baby's things, And died from lock-jaw, an ironical death.
Hear me, ambitious souls, Sex is the curse of life.

by George Eliot | |

Count That Day Lost

 If you sit down at set of sun
And count the acts that you have done,
And, counting, find
One self-denying deed, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard, 
One glance most kind
That fell like sunshine where it went --
Then you may count that day well spent.
But if, through all the livelong day, You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay -- If, through it all You've nothing done that you can trace That brought the sunshine to one face-- No act most small That helped some soul and nothing cost -- Then count that day as worse than lost.

by George Eliot | |


 (For Katherine Bregy)

I went to gather roses and twine them in a ring,
For I would make a posy, a posy for the King.
I got an hundred roses, the loveliest there be, From the white rose vine and the pink rose bush and from the red rose tree.
But when I took my posy and laid it at His feet I found He had His roses a million times more sweet.
There was a scarlet blossom upon each foot and hand, And a great pink rose bloomed from His side for the healing of the land.
Now of this fair and awful King there is this marvel told, That He wears a crown of linked thorns instead of one of gold.
Where there are thorns are roses, and I saw a line of red, A little wreath of roses around His radiant head.
A red rose is His Sacred Heart, a white rose is His face, And His breath has turned the barren world to a rich and flowery place.
He is the Rose of Sharon, His gardener am I, And I shall drink His fragrance in Heaven when I die.

by George Eliot | |


 You love the roses - so do I.
I wish The sky would rain down roses, as they rain From off the shaken bush.
Why will it not? Then all the valley would be pink and white And soft to tread on.
They would fall as light As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!

by George Eliot | |

I Grant You Ample Leave

 "I grant you ample leave 
To use the hoary formula 'I am' 
Naming the emptiness where thought is not; 
But fill the void with definition, 'I' 
Will be no more a datum than the words 
You link false inference with, the 'Since' & 'so' 
That, true or not, make up the atom-whirl.
Resolve your 'Ego', it is all one web With vibrant ether clotted into worlds: Your subject, self, or self-assertive 'I' Turns nought but object, melts to molecules, Is stripped from naked Being with the rest Of those rag-garments named the Universe.
Or if, in strife to keep your 'Ego' strong You make it weaver of the etherial light, Space, motion, solids & the dream of Time -- Why, still 'tis Being looking from the dark, The core, the centre of your consciousness, That notes your bubble-world: sense, pleasure, pain, What are they but a shifting otherness, Phantasmal flux of moments? --"

by George Eliot | |

In a London Drawingroom

 The sky is cloudy, yellowed by the smoke.
For view there are the houses opposite Cutting the sky with one long line of wall Like solid fog: far as the eye can stretch Monotony of surface & of form Without a break to hang a guess upon.
No bird can make a shadow as it flies, For all is shadow, as in ways o'erhung By thickest canvass, where the golden rays Are clothed in hemp.
No figure lingering Pauses to feed the hunger of the eye Or rest a little on the lap of life.
All hurry on & look upon the ground, Or glance unmarking at the passers by The wheels are hurrying too, cabs, carriages All closed, in multiplied identity.
The world seems one huge prison-house & court Where men are punished at the slightest cost, With lowest rate of colour, warmth & joy.

by George Eliot | |

Mid My Gold-Brown Curls

 'Mid my gold-brown curls 
There twined a silver hair: 
I plucked it idly out 
And scarcely knew 'twas there.
Coiled in my velvet sleeve it lay And like a serpent hissed: "Me thou canst pluck & fling away, One hair is lightly missed; But how on that near day When all the wintry army muster in array?"

by George Eliot | |

Sweet Endings Come and Go Love

 "La noche buena se viene, 
La noche buena se va, 
Y nosotros nos iremos 
Y no volveremos mas.
" -- Old Villancico.
Sweet evenings come and go, love, They came and went of yore: This evening of our life, love, Shall go and come no more.
When we have passed away, love, All things will keep their name; But yet no life on earth, love, With ours will be the same.
The daisies will be there, love, The stars in heaven will shine: I shall not feel thy wish, love, Nor thou my hand in thine.
A better time will come, love, And better souls be born: I would not be the best, love, To leave thee now forlorn.