George Meredith

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

George Meredith Poems

161. Phoebus With Admetus 1/4/2003
162. Pictures Of The Rhine 4/15/2010
163. Poetry 4/15/2010
164. Progress 4/15/2010
165. Requiem 4/15/2010
166. Seed-Time 4/15/2010
167. Sense And Spirit 4/15/2010
168. Shemselnihar 4/15/2010
169. Society 4/15/2010
170. Solon 4/15/2010
171. Song (Untitled #10) 4/15/2010
172. Song (Untitled #11) 4/15/2010
173. Song (Untitled #12) 4/15/2010
174. Song (Untitled #13) 4/15/2010
175. Song (Untitled #2) 4/15/2010
176. Song (Untitled #3) 4/15/2010
177. Song (Untitled #4) 4/15/2010
178. Song (Untitled #5) 4/15/2010
179. Song (Untitled #6) 4/15/2010
180. Song (Untitled #7) 4/15/2010
181. Song (Untitled #8) 4/15/2010
182. Song (Untitled #9) 4/15/2010
183. Song (Untitled#1) 4/15/2010
184. Song In The Songless 1/3/2003
185. Song--Autumn 4/15/2010
186. Song--Spring 4/15/2010
187. Sorrow And Joys 4/15/2010
188. South-West Wind In The Woodland 4/15/2010
189. Sunrise 4/15/2010
190. Tardy Spring 4/15/2010
191. The Appeasement Of Demeter 4/15/2010
192. The Beggar's Soliloquy 4/15/2010
193. The Burden Of Strength 4/15/2010
194. The Cageing Of Ares 4/15/2010
195. The Call 4/15/2010
196. The Century Of Garibaldi 4/15/2010
197. The Crisis 4/15/2010
198. The Crown Of Love 4/15/2010
199. The Day Of The Daughter Of Hades 4/15/2010
200. The Death Of Winter 4/15/2010
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

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

[Hata Bildir]