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 | Create an image from this poem

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.
Written by George Meredith | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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.
Written by George Meredith | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

Modern Love II: It Ended and the Morrow

 It ended, and the morrow brought the task.
Her eyes were guilty gates, that let him in By shutting all too zealous for their sin: Each sucked a secret, and each wore a mask.
But, oh, the bitter taste her beauty had! He sickened as at breath of poison-flowers: A languid humour stole among the hours, And if their smiles encountered, he went mad, And raged deep inward, till the light was brown Before his vision, and the world, forgot, Looked wicked as some old dull murder-spot.
A star with lurid beams, she seemed to crown The pit of infamy: and then again He fainted on his vengefulness, and strove To ape the magnanimity of love, And smote himself, a shuddering heap of pain.
Written by George Meredith | Create an image from this poem

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!
Written by George Meredith | Create an image from this poem

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.
Written by George Meredith | Create an image from this poem

Modern Love XXVIII: I Must Be Flattered

 I must be flattered.
The imperious Desire speaks out.
Lady, I am content To play with you the game of Sentiment, And with you enter on paths perilous; But if across your beauty I throw light, To make it threefold, it must be all mine.
First secret; then avowed.
For I must shine Envied,--I, lessened in my proper sight! Be watchful of your beauty, Lady dear! How much hangs on that lamp you cannot tell.
Most earnestly I pray you, tend it well: And men shall see me as a burning sphere; And men shall mark you eyeing me, and groan To be the God of such a grand sunflower! I feel the promptings of Satanic power, While you do homage unto me alone.
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