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Best Famous George Meredith Poems

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

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by George Meredith |

Meditation under Stars

 What links are ours with orbs that are
So resolutely far:
The solitary asks, and they
Give radiance as from a shield:
Still at the death of day,
The seen, the unrevealed.
Implacable they shine To us who would of Life obtain An answer for the life we strain To nourish with one sign.
Nor can imagination throw The penetrative shaft: we pass The breath of thought, who would divine If haply they may grow As Earth; have our desire to know; If life comes there to grain from grass, And flowers like ours of toil and pain; Has passion to beat bar, Win space from cleaving brain; The mystic link attain, Whereby star holds on star.
Those visible immortals beam Allurement to the dream: Ireful at human hungers brook No question in the look.
For ever virgin to our sense, Remote they wane to gaze intense: Prolong it, and in ruthlessness they smite The beating heart behind the ball of sight: Till we conceive their heavens hoar, Those lights they raise but sparkles frore, And Earth, our blood-warm Earth, a shuddering prey To that frigidity of brainless ray.
Yet space is given for breath of thought Beyond our bounds when musing: more When to that musing love is brought, And love is asked of love's wherefore.
'Tis Earth's, her gift; else have we nought: Her gift, her secret, here our tie.
And not with her and yonder sky? Bethink you: were it Earth alone Breeds love, would not her region be The sole delight and throne Of generous Deity? To deeper than this ball of sight Appeal the lustrous people of the night.
Fronting yon shoreless, sown with fiery sails, It is our ravenous that quails, Flesh by its craven thirsts and fears distraught.
The spirit leaps alight, Doubts not in them is he, The binder of his sheaves, the sane, the right: Of magnitude to magnitude is wrought, To feel it large of the great life they hold: In them to come, or vaster intervolved, The issues known in us, our unsolved solved: That there with toil Life climbs the self-same Tree, Whose roots enrichment have from ripeness dropped.
So may we read and little find them cold: Let it but be the lord of Mind to guide Our eyes; no branch of Reason's growing lopped; Nor dreaming on a dream; but fortified By day to penetrate black midnight; see, Hear, feel, outside the senses; even that we, The specks of dust upon a mound of mould, We who reflect those rays, though low our place, To them are lastingly allied.
So may we read, and little find them cold: Not frosty lamps illumining dead space, Not distant aliens, not senseless Powers.
The fire is in them whereof we are born; The music of their motion may be ours.
Spirit shall deem them beckoning Earth and voiced Sisterly to her, in her beams rejoiced.
Of love, the grand impulsion, we behold The love that lends her grace Among the starry fold.
Then at new flood of customary morn, Look at her through her showers, Her mists, her streaming gold, A wonder edges the familiar face: She wears no more that robe of printed hours; Half strange seems Earth, and sweeter than her flowers.

by George Meredith |

Modern Love XLVI: At Last We Parley

 At last we parley: we so strangely dumb
In such a close communion! It befell
About the sounding of the Matin-bell,
And lo! her place was vacant, and the hum
Of loneliness was round me.
Then I rose, And my disordered brain did guide my foot To that old wood where our first love-salute Was interchanged: the source of many throes! There did I see her, not alone.
I moved Toward her, and made proffer of my arm.
She took it simply, with no rude alarm; And that disturbing shadow passed reproved.
I felt the pained speech coming, and declared My firm belief in her, ere she could speak.
A ghastly morning came into her cheek, While with a widening soul on me she stared.

by George Meredith |

Lucifer in Starlight

 On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose.
Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened, Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose.
Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those.
And now upon his western wing he leaned, Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careened, Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows.
Soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars With memory of the old revolt from Awe, He reached a middle height, and at the stars, Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank.
Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.

by George Meredith |

Loves Grave

 MARK where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like, 
Its skeleton shadow on the broad-back'd wave! 
Here is a fitting spot to dig Love's grave; 
Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike, 
And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand: 
In hearing of the ocean, and in sight 
Of those ribb'd wind-streaks running into white.
If I the death of Love had deeply plann'd, I never could have made it half so sure, As by the unblest kisses which upbraid The full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade! 'Tis morning: but no morning can restore What we have forfeited.
I see no sin: The wrong is mix'd.
In tragic life, God wot, No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: We are betray'd by what is false within.

by George Meredith |

Love in the Valley

 Under yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward,
Couched with her arms behind her golden head,
Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly,
Lies my young love sleeping in the shade.
Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her, Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow, Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me: Then would she hold me and never let me go? Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, Swift as the swallow along the river's light Circleting the surface to meet his mirrored winglets, Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight.
Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops, Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun, She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won! When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror, Tying up her laces, looping up her hair, Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, More love should I have, and much less care.
When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror, Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, I should miss but one for many boys and girls.
Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon.
No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder: Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon.
Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid measure, Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless.
Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star.
Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried, Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown eve-jar.
Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting: So were it with me if forgetting could be willed.
Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring, Tell it to forget the source that keeps it filled.
Stepping down the hill with her fair companions, Arm in arm, all against the raying West Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches, Brave in her shape, and sweeter unpossessed.
Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking Whispered the world was; morning light is she.
Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless; Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free.
Happy happy time, when the white star hovers Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew, Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness, Threading it with colour, as yewberries the yew.
Thicker crowd the shades while the grave East deepens Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells.
Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret; Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells.
Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lighting Wild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along, Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughter Chill as a dull face frowning on a song.
Ay, but shows the South-West a ripple-feathered bosom Blown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascend Scaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunset Rich, deep like love in beauty without end.
When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant to the window Turns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams, Beautiful she looks, like a white water-lily Bursting out of bud in havens of the streams.
When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankle In her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May, Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden lily Pure from the night, and splendid for the day.
Mother of the dews, dark eye-lashed twilight, Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley's brim, Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark, Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him.
Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet, Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers.
Let me hear her laughter, I would have her ever Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers.
All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose; Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands.
My sweet leads: she knows not why, but now she totters, Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her hands.
Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping, Coming the rose: and unaware a cry Springs in her bosom for odours and for colour, Covert and the nightingale; she knows not why.
Kerchiefed head and chin she darts between her tulips, Streaming like a willow grey in arrowy rain: Some bend beaten cheek to gravel, and their angel She will be; she lifts them, and on she speeds again.
Black the driving raincloud breasts the iron gateway: She is forth to cheer a neighbour lacking mirth.
So when sky and grass met rolling dumb for thunder Saw I once a white dove, sole light of earth.
Prim little scholars are the flowers of her garden, Trained to stand in rows, and asking if they please.
I might love them well but for loving more the wild ones: O my wild ones! they tell me more than these.
You, my wild one, you tell of honied field-rose, Violet, blushing eglantine in life; and even as they, They by the wayside are earnest of your goodness, You are of life's, on the banks that line the way.
Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose, Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three.
Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmine Breathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me.
Sweeter unpossessed, have I said of her my sweetest? Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes, Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmine Bears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths.
Yellow with birdfoot-trefoil are the grass-glades; Yellow with cinquefoil of the dew-grey leaf; Yellow with stonecrop; the moss-mounds are yellow; Blue-necked the wheat sways, yellowing to the sheaf: Green-yellow bursts from the copse the laughing yaffle; Sharp as a sickle is the edge of shade and shine: Earth in her heart laughs looking at the heavens, Thinking of the harvest: I look and think of mine.
This I may know: her dressing and undressing Such a change of light shows as when the skies in sport Shift from cloud to moonlight; or edging over thunder Slips a ray of sun; or sweeping into port White sails furl; or on the ocean borders White sails lean along the waves leaping green.
Visions of her shower before me, but from eyesight Guarded she would be like the sun were she seen.
Front door and back of the mossed old farmhouse Open with the morn, and in a breezy link Freshly sparkles garden to stripe-shadowed orchard, Green across a rill where on sand the minnows wink.
Busy in the grass the early sun of summer Swarms, and the blackbird's mellow fluting notes Call my darling up with round and roguish challenge: Quaintest, richest carol of all the singing throats! Cool was the woodside; cool as her white dairy Keeping sweet the cream-pan; and there the boys from school, Cricketing below, rushed brown and red with sunshine; O the dark translucence of the deep-eyed cool! Spying from the farm, herself she fetched a pitcher Full of milk, and tilted for each in turn the beak.
Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tiptoe, Said, "I will kiss you": she laughed and leaned her cheek.
Doves of the fir-wood walling high our red roof Through the long noon coo, crooning through the coo.
Loose droop the leaves, and down the sleepy roadway Sometimes pipes a chaffinch; loose droops the blue.
Cows flap a slow tail knee-deep in the river, Breathless, given up to sun and gnat and fly.
Nowhere is she seen; and if I see her nowhere, Lightning may come, straight rains and tiger sky.
O the golden sheaf, the rustling treasure-armful! O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced! O the treasure-tresses one another over Nodding! O the girdle slack about the waist! Slain are the poppies that shot their random scarlet Quick amid the wheatears: wound about the waist, Gathered, see these brides of Earth one blush of ripeness! O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced! Large and smoky red the sun's cold disk drops, Clipped by naked hills, on violet shaded snow: Eastward large and still lights up a bower of moonrise, Whence at her leisure steps the moon aglow.
Nightlong on black print-branches our beech-tree Gazes in this whiteness: nightlong could I.
Here may life on death or death on life be painted.
Let me clasp her soul to know she cannot die! Gossips count her faults; they scour a narrow chamber Where there is no window, read not heaven or her.
"When she was a tiny," one aged woman quavers, Plucks at my heart and leads me by the ear.
Faults she had once as she learnt to run and tumbled: Faults of feature some see, beauty not complete.
Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes holy Earth and air, may have faults from head to feet.
Hither she comes; she comes to me; she lingers, Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new surprise High rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger; Yet am I the light and living of her eyes.
Something friends have told her fills her heart to brimming, Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames.
-- Sure of her haven, O like a dove alighting, Arms up, she dropped: our souls were in our names.
Soon will she lie like a white-frost sunrise.
Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley pale as rye, Long since your sheaves have yielded to the thresher, Felt the girdle loosened, seen the tresses fly.
Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset.
Swift with the to-morrow, green-winged Spring! Sing from the South-West, bring her back the truants, Nightingale and swallow, song and dipping wing.
Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy April Spreading bough on bough a primrose mountain, you, Lucid in the moon, raise lilies to the skyfields, Youngest green transfused in silver shining through: Fairer than the lily, than the wild white cherry: Fair as in image my seraph love appears Borne to me by dreams when dawn is at my eyelids: Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on tears.
Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, I would speak my heart out: heaven is my need.
Every woodland tree is flushing like the dog-wood, Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed.
Flushing like the dog-wood crimson in October; Streaming like the flag-reed South-West blown; Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted white beam: All seem to know what is for heaven alone.

by George Meredith |

Juggling Jerry

 Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes:
By the old hedge-side we'll halt a stage.
It's nigh my last above the daisies: My next leaf'll be man's blank page.
Yes, my old girl! and it's no use crying: Juggler, constable, king, must bow.
One that outjuggles all's been spying Long to have me, and he has me now.
We've travelled times to this old common: Often we've hung our pots in the gorse.
We've had a stirring life, old woman! You, and I, and the old grey horse.
Races, and fairs, and royal occasions, Found us coming to their call: Now they'll miss us at our stations: There's a Juggler outjuggles all! Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly! Over the duck-pond the willow shakes.
Easy to think that grieving's folly, When the hand's firm as driven stakes! Ay, when we're strong, and braced, and manful, Life's a sweet fiddle: but we're a batch Born to become the Great Juggler's han'ful: Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch.
Here's where the lads of the village cricket: I was a lad not wide from here: Couldn't I whip off the bale from the wicket? Like an old world those days appear! Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatch'd ale-house--I know them! They are old friends of my halts, and seem, Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them: Juggling don't hinder the heart's esteem.
Juggling's no sin, for we must have victual: Nature allows us to bait for the fool.
Holding one's own makes us juggle no little; But, to increase it, hard juggling's the rule.
You that are sneering at my profession, Haven't you juggled a vast amount? There's the Prime Minister, in one Session, Juggles more games than my sins'll count.
I've murdered insects with mock thunder: Conscience, for that, in men don't quail.
I've made bread from the bump of wonder: That's my business, and there's my tale.
Fashion and rank all praised the professor: Ay! and I've had my smile from the Queen: Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her! Ain't this a sermon on that scene? I've studied men from my topsy-turvy Close, and, I reckon, rather true.
Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy: Most, a dash between the two.
But it's a woman, old girl, that makes me Think more kindly of the race: And it's a woman, old girl, that shakes me When the Great Juggler I must face.
We two were married, due and legal: Honest we've lived since we've been one.
Lord! I could then jump like an eagle: You danced bright as a bit o' the sun.
Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry! All night we kiss'd, we juggled all day.
Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry! Now from his old girl he's juggled away.
It's past parsons to console us: No, nor no doctor fetch for me: I can die without my bolus; Two of a trade, lass, never agree! Parson and Doctor!--don't they love rarely Fighting the devil in other men's fields! Stand up yourself and match him fairly: Then see how the rascal yields! I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting Finery while his poor helpmate grubs: Coin I've stored, and you won't be wanting: You shan't beg from the troughs and tubs.
Nobly you've stuck to me, though in his kitchen Many a Marquis would hail you Cook! Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in, But your old Jerry you never forsook.
Hand up the chirper! ripe ale winks in it; Let's have comfort and be at peace.
Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet.
Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease.
May be--for none see in that black hollow-- It's just a place where we're held in pawn, And, when the Great Juggler makes as to swallow, It's just the sword-trick--I ain't quite gone! Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty, Gold-like and warm: it's the prime of May.
Better than mortar, brick and putty Is God's house on a blowing day.
Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it: All the old heath-smells! Ain't it strange? There's the world laughing, as if to conceal it, But He's by us, juggling the change.
I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying, Once--it's long gone--when two gulls we beheld, Which, as the moon got up, were flying Down a big wave that sparked and swell'd.
Crack, went a gun: one fell: the second Wheeled round him twice, and was off for new luck: There in the dark her white wing beckon'd:-- Drop me a kiss--I'm the bird dead-struck!

by George Meredith |

Modern Love L: Thus Piteously Love

 Thus piteously Love closed what he begat:
The union of this ever-diverse pair!
These two were rapid falcons in a snare,
Condemned to do the flitting of the bat.
Lovers beneath the singing sky of May, They wandered once; clear as the dew on flowers: But they fed not on the advancing hours: Their hearts held cravings for the buried day.
Then each applied to each that fatal knife, Deep questioning, which probes to endless dole.
Ah, what a dusty answer gets the soul When hot for certainties in this our life!-- In tragic hints here see what evermore Moves dark as yonder midnight ocean's force, Thundering like ramping hosts of warrior horse, To throw that faint thin line upon the shore!

by George Meredith |

Modern Love IX: He Felt the Wild Beast

 He felt the wild beast in him betweenwhiles 
So masterfully rude, that he would grieve 
To see the helpless delicate thing receive 
His guardianship through certain dark defiles.
Had he not teeth to rend, and hunger too? But still he spared her.
Once: 'Have you no fear ?' He said: 'twas dusk; she in his grasp; none near.
She laughed: 'No, surely; am I not with you?' And uttering that soft starry 'you,' she leaned Her gentle body near him, looking up; And from her eyes, as from a poison-cup, He drank until the flittering eyelids screened.
Devilish malignant witch and oh, young beam Of heaven's circle-glory! Here thy shape To squeeze like an intoxicating grape I might, and yet thou goest safe, supreme.

by George Meredith |

Modern Love XLVII: We Saw the Swallows

 We saw the swallows gathering in the sky, 
And in the osier-isle we heard them noise.
We had not to look back on summer joys, Or forward to a summer of bright dye: But in the largeness of the evening earth Our spirits grew as we went side by side.
The hour became her husband and my bride.
Love that had robbed us so, thus blessed our dearth! The pilgrims of the year waxed very loud In multitudinous chatterings, as the flood Full brown came from the West, and like pale blood Expanded to the upper crimson cloud.
Love that had robbed us of immortal things, This little moment mercifully gave, Where I have seen across the twilight wave The swan sail with her young beneath her wings.

by George Meredith |

Dirge in Woods

 A wind sways the pines,
And below
Not a breath of wild air;
Still as the mosses that glow
On the flooring and over the lines
Of the roots here and there.
The pine-tree drops its dead; They are quiet, as under the sea.
Overhead, overhead Rushes life in a race, As the clouds the clouds chase; And we go, And we drop like the fruits of the tree, Even we, Even so.