George Meredith Poems

I

Not yet had History's Aetna smoked the skies,
And low the Gallic Giantess lay enchained,
...

I

There she goes up the street with her book in her hand,
And her Good morning, Martin! Ay, lass, how d'ye do?
...

I

Flat as to an eagle's eye,
Earth hung under Attila.
...

I

With love exceeding a simple love of the things
That glide in grasses and rubble of woody wreck;
...

When buds of palm do burst and spread
Their downy feathers in the lane,
And orchard blossoms, white and red,
...

(The Death Of Robert Browning)
Now dumb is he who waked the world to speak,
And voiceless hangs the world beside his bier.
...

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.
...

With Alfred and St. Louis he doth win
Grander than crowned head's mortuary dome:
His gentle heroic manhood enters in
...

They have no song, the sedges dry,
And still they sing.
It is within my breast they sing,
As I pass by.
...

I chanced upon an early walk to spy
A troop of children through an orchard gate:
The boughs hung low, the grass was high;
...