George Meredith

 Forty years back, when much had place 
That since has perished out of mind, 
I heard that voice and saw that face.


He spoke as one afoot will wind 
A morning horn ere men awake; 
His note was trenchant, turning kind.


He was one of those whose wit can shake 
And riddle to the very core 
The counterfiets that Time will break.
.
.
.


Of late, when we two met once more, 
The luminous countenance and rare 
Shone just as forty years before.


So that, when now all tongues declare 
His shape unseen by his green hill, 
I scarce believe he sits not there.


No matter.
 Further and further still 
Through the world's vaprous vitiate air 
His words wing on--as live words will.

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