George Meredith

(12 February 1828 – 18 May 1909 / Portsmouth, England)

George Meredith Poems

41. Continued - Iii 4/14/2010
42. Daphne 4/14/2010
43. Dirge In Woods 1/3/2003
44. Earth And Man 4/14/2010
45. Earth And The Wedded Woman 4/14/2010
46. Earth's Preference 4/14/2010
47. Earth's Secret 4/14/2010
48. Empdeocles 4/14/2010
49. England Before The Storm 4/14/2010
50. Foresight And Patience 4/14/2010
51. Forest History 4/14/2010
52. Fragments 4/14/2010
53. France--December 1870 4/14/2010
54. Gordon Of Khartoum 4/14/2010
55. Grace And Love 4/14/2010
56. Grandfather Bridgeman 4/14/2010
57. Hard Weather 4/14/2010
58. Hawarden 4/14/2010
59. Hernani 4/14/2010
60. Hymn To Colour 4/14/2010
61. Hypnos On Ida 4/14/2010
62. Il Y A Cent Ans 4/14/2010
63. Internal Harmony 4/14/2010
64. Invitation To The Country 4/14/2010
65. Ireland 4/14/2010
66. Islet The Dachs 4/14/2010
67. J. C. M. 4/14/2010
68. John Lackland 4/14/2010
69. Joy Is Fleet 4/14/2010
70. Juggling Jerry 1/3/2003
71. July 4/14/2010
72. Jump-To-Glory Jane 4/14/2010
73. King Harald's Trance 4/14/2010
74. Lines To A Friend Visiting America 4/14/2010
75. London By Lamplight 4/14/2010
76. Love In The Valley 1/3/2003
77. Love Is Winged For Two 4/14/2010
78. Love's Grave 1/4/2003
79. Lucifer In Starlight 1/3/2003
80. M. M. 4/14/2010
Best Poem of George Meredith

The Lark Ascending

He rises and begins to round,
He drops the silver chain of sound
Of many links without a break,
In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake,
All intervolv’d and spreading wide,
Like water-dimples down a tide
Where ripple ripple overcurls
And eddy into eddy whirls;
A press of hurried notes that run
So fleet they scarce are more than one,
Yet changingly the trills repeat
And linger ringing while they fleet,
Sweet to the quick o’ the ear, and dear
To her beyond the handmaid ear,
Who sits beside our inner springs,
Too often dry for this he brings,
Which ...

Read the full of The Lark Ascending

Love's 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,

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