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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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Written 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.

Written by George Meredith |

Modern Love: XLVI

 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.

Written 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.

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Written by George Meredith |

Modern Love XLI: How Many a Thing

 How many a thing which we cast to the ground, 
When others pick it up becomes a gem! 
We grasp at all the wealth it is to them; 
And by reflected light its worth is found.
Yet for us still 'tis nothing! and that zeal Of false appreciation quickly fades.
This truth is little known to human shades, How rare from their own instinct 'tis to feel! They waste the soul with spurious desire, That is not the ripe flame upon the bough.
We two have taken up a lifeless vow To rob a living passion: dust for fire! Madam is grave, and eyes the clock that tells Approaching midnight.
We have struck despair Into two hearts.
O, look we like a pair Who for fresh nuptials joyfully yield all else?

Written by George Meredith |

Modern Love XXX: What Are We First

 What are we first? First, animals; and next 
Intelligences at a leap; on whom 
Pale lies the distant shadow of the tomb, 
And all that draweth on the tomb for text.
Into which state comes Love, the crowning sun: Beneath whose light the shadow loses form.
We are the lords of life, and life is warm.
Intelligence and instinct now are one.
But nature says: 'My children most they seem When they least know me: therefore I decree That they shall suffer.
' Swift doth young Love flee, And we stand wakened, shivering from our dream.
Then if we study Nature we are wise.
Thus do the few who live but with the day: The scientific animals are they.
Lady, this is my sonnet to your eyes.

Written by George Meredith |

Modern Love XXIX: Am I Failing

 Am I failing ? For no longer can I cast 
A glory round about this head of gold.
Glory she wears, but springing from the mould; Not like the consecration of the Past! Is my soul beggared? Something more than earth I cry for still: I cannot be at peace In having Love upon a' mortal lease.
I cannot take the woman at her worth! Where is the ancient wealth wherewith I clothed Our human nakedness, and could endow With spiritual splendour a white brow That else had grinned at me the fact I loathed ? A kiss is but a kiss now! and no wave Of a great flood that whirls me to the sea.
But, as you will! we'll sit contentedly, And eat our pot of honey on the grave.

Written by George Meredith |

Modern Love XXXV: It Is No Vulgar Nature

 It is no vulgar nature I have wived.
Secretive, sensitive, she takes a wound Deep to her soul, as if the sense had swooned, And not a thought of vengeance had survived.
No confidences has she: but relief Must come to one whose suffering is acute.
O have a care of natures that are mute! They punish you in acts: their steps are brief.
What is she doing? What does she demand From Providence or me? She is not one Long to endure this torpidly, and shun The drugs that crowd about a woman's hand.
At Forfeits during snow we played, and I Must kiss her.
'Well performed!' I said: then she: ''Tis hardly worth the money, you agree?' Save her? What for? To act this wedded lie!

Written by George Meredith |

Modern Love: I

 By this he knew she wept with waking eyes:
That, at his hand's light quiver by her head,
The strange low sobs that shook their common bed
Were called into her with a sharp surprise,
And strangled mute, like little gaping snakes,
Dreadfully venomous to him.
She lay Stone-still, and the long darkness flowed away With muffled pulses.
Then, as midnight makes Her giant heart of Memory and Tears Drink the pale drug of silence, and so beat Sleep's heavy measure, they from head to feet Were moveless, looking through their dead black years, By vain regret scrawled over the blank wall.
Like sculptured effigies they might be seen Upon their marriage-tomb, the sword between; Each wishing for the sword that severs all.

Written by George Meredith |

Modern Love XXIII: Tis Christmas Weather

 'Tis Christmas weather, and a country house 
Receives us: rooms are full: we can but get 
An attic-crib.
Such lovers will not fret At that, it is half-said.
The great carouse Knocks hard upon the midnight's hollow door, But when I knock at hers, I see the pit.
Why did I come here in that dullard fit? I enter, and lie couched upon the floor.
Passing, I caught the coverlet's quick beat:-- Come, Shame, burn to my soul! and Pride, and Pain-- Foul demons that have tortured me, enchain! Out in the freezing darkness the lambs bleat.
The small bird stiffens in the low starlight.
I know not how, but shuddering as I slept, I dreamed a banished angel to me crept: My feet were nourished on her breasts all night.

Written by George Meredith |

Modern Love XLV: It Is the Season

 It is the season of the sweet wild rose, 
My Lady's emblem in the heart of me! 
So golden-crownèd shines she gloriously, 
And with that softest dream of blood she glows: 
Mild as an evening heaven round Hesper bright! 
I pluck the flower, and smell it, and revive 
The time when in her eyes I stood alive.
I seem to look upon it out of Night.
Here's Madam, stepping hastily.
Her whims Bid her demand the flower, which I let drop.
As I proceed, I feel her sharply stop, And crush it under heel with trembling limbs.
She joins me in a cat-like way, and talks Of company, and even condescends To utter laughing scandal of old friends.
These are the summer days, and these our walks.

Written by George Meredith |

Modern Love: XIV

 What soul would bargain for a cure that brings
Contempt the nobler agony to kill?
Rather let me bear on the bitter ill,
And strike this rusty bosom with new stings!
It seems there is another veering fit
Since on a gold-haired lady's eyeballs pure,
I looked with little prospect of a cure,
The while her mouth's red bow loosed shafts of wit.
Just heaven! can it be true that jealousy Has decked the woman thus? and does her head Swim somewhat for possessions forfeited? Madam, you teach me many things that be.
I open an old book, and there I find That "Women still may love whom they deceive.
" Such love I prize not, madam: by your leave, The game you play at is not to my mind.

Written 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.

Written by George Meredith |

Modern Love XIII: I Play for Seasons Not Eternities

 'I play for Seasons; not Eternities!' 
Says Nature, laughing on her way.
'So must All those whose stake is nothing more than dust!' And lo, she wins, and of her harmonies She is full sure! Upon her dying rose, She drops a look of fondness, and goes by, Scarce any retrospection in her eye; For she the laws of growth most deeply knows, Whose hands bear, here, a seed-bag--there, an urn.
Pledges she herself to aught, 'twould mark her end! This lesson of our only visible friend, Can we not teach our foolish hearts to learn ? Yes! yes !--but, oh, our human rose is fair Surpassingly! Lose calmly Love's great bliss, When the renewed for ever of a kiss Whirls life within the shower of loosened hair!

Written by George Meredith |

Modern Love XIV: What Soul Would Bargain

 What soul would bargain for a cure that brings
Contempt the nobler agony to kill?
Rather let me bear on the bitter ill,
And strike this rusty bosom with new stings!
It seems there is another veering fit
Since on a gold-haired lady's eyeballs pure,
I looked with little prospect of a cure,
The while her mouth's red bow loosed shafts of wit.
Just heaven! can it be true that jealousy Has decked the woman thus? and does her head Swim somewhat for possessions forfeited? Madam, you teach me many things that be.
I open an old book, and there I find That "Women still may love whom they deceive.
" Such love I prize not, madam: by your leave, The game you play at is not to my mind.

Written by George Meredith |

Modern Love XLII: I Am to Follow Her

 I am to follow her.
There is much grace In woman when thus bent on martyrdom.
They think that dignity of soul may come, Perchance, with dignity of body.
Base! But I was taken by that air of cold And statuesque sedateness, when she said 'I'm going'; lit a taper, bowed her head, And went, as with the stride of Pallas bold.
Fleshly indifference horrible! The hands Of Time now signal: O, she's safe from me! Within those secret walls what do I see Where first she set the taper down she stands: Not Pallas: Hebe shamed! Thoughts black as death, Like a stirred pool in sunshine break.
Her wrists I catch: she faltering, as she half resists, 'You love.
.
.
? love.
.
.
? love.
.
.
?' all on an in-drawn breath.