George Meredith Poems
- The Lark Ascending He rises and begins to round, He drops ...
- Angela Burdett-Coutts Long with us, now she leaves us; she ...
- Modern Love L: Thus Piteously ... Thus piteously Love closed...
- Lucifer In Starlight On a starred night Prince Lucifer ...
- Antigone The buried voice bespake Antigone. 'O sister! ...
- Modern Love I: By This He Knew... By this he knew she ...
- By Morning Twilight Night, like a dying mother, Eyes her ...
George Meredith, OM was an English novelist and poet of the Victorian era.
Meredith was born in Portsmouth, England, a son and grandson of naval outfitters. His mother died when he was five. At the age of 14 he was sent to a Moravian School in Neuwied, Germany, where he remained for two years. He read law and was articled as a solicitor, but abandoned that profession for journalism and poetry. He collaborated with Edward Gryffydh Peacock, son of Thomas Love Peacock in publishing a privately circulated literary magazine, the Monthly Observer. He married Edward Peacock's widowed sister Mary Ellen Nicolls in 1849 when he was twenty-one years old and she was ... more »
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Quotationsmore quotations »
''Cynicism is intellectual dandyism without the coxcomb's feathers.''George Meredith (1828-1909), British author. Clara Middleton, quoting Mr. Whitford, in The Egoist, ch. 7 (1879). Clara adds: "It seems to me that ...
''Sentimentalists are they who seek to enjoy without incurring the Immense Debtorship for a thing done.''George Meredith (1828-1909), British author. Sir Austin Feverel, quoting the "Pilgrim's Scrip," in "Of the Spring Primrose and the Autumnal," ch. 24, ...
''I expect that Woman will be the last thing civilised by Man.''George Meredith (1828-1909), British author. The Ordeal of Richard Feverel, ch. 1 (1859). An aphorism from the "The Pilgrim's Scrip."
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,