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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 Algernon Charles Swinburne | |

On the Deaths of Thomas Carlyle and George Eliot

 Two souls diverse out of our human sight
Pass, followed one with love and each with wonder:
The stormy sophist with his mouth of thunder,
Clothed with loud words and mantled in the might
Of darkness and magnificence of night;
And one whose eye could smite the night in sunder,
Searching if light or no light were thereunder,
And found in love of loving-kindness light.
Duty divine and Thought with eyes of fire, Still following Righteousness with deep desire, Shone sole and stern before her and above-- Sure stars and sole to steer by; but more sweet Shone lower the loveliest lamp for earthly feet-- The light of little children, and their love.


by Craig Raine | |

Dandelions

 '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.