George Meredith

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

Modern Love Xliii: Mark Where The Pressing Wind - Poem by George Meredith

Mark where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like,
Its skeleton shadow on the broad-backed 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 ribbed wind-streaks running into white.
If I the death of Love had deeply planned,
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 mixed. In tragic life, God wot,
No villain need be! Passions spin the plot:
We are betrayed by what is false within.


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Read poems about / on: running, ocean, wind, death, god, love, life, kiss, passion



Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003



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