Poems by George Meredith Volume I Part 26

She stops before the gla.s.s. What sight in view?

A face that seems the latest to reveal!

For she turns from it hastily, and tossed Irresolute steals shadow-like to where I stand; and wavering pale before me there, Her tears fall still as oak-leaves after frost.

She will not speak. I will not ask. We are League-sundered by the silent gulf between.

You burly lovers on the village green, Yours is a lower, and a happier star!

XXIII

'Tis Christmas weather, and a country house Receives us: rooms are full: we can but get An attic-crib. Such lovers will not fret At that, it is half-said. The great carouse Knocks hard upon the midnight's hollow door, But when I knock at hers, I see the pit.

Why did I come here in that dullard fit?

I enter, and lie couched upon the floor.

Pa.s.sing, I caught the coverlet's quick beat:- Come, Shame, burn to my soul! and Pride, and Pain - Foul demons that have tortured me, enchain!

Out in the freezing darkness the lambs bleat.

The small bird stiffens in the low starlight.

I know not how, but shuddering as I slept, I dreamed a banished angel to me crept: My feet were nourished on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s all night.

XXIV

The misery is greater, as I live!

To know her flesh so pure, so keen her sense, That she does penance now for no offence, Save against Love. The less can I forgive!

The less can I forgive, though I adore That cruel lovely pallor which surrounds Her footsteps; and the low vibrating sounds That come on me, as from a magic sh.o.r.e.

Low are they, but most subtle to find out The shrinking soul. Madam, 'tis understood When women play upon their womanhood, It means, a Season gone. And yet I doubt But I am duped. That nun-like look waylays My fancy. Oh! I do but wait a sign!

Pluck out the eyes of pride! thy mouth to mine!

Never! though I die thirsting. Go thy ways!

XXV

You like not that French novel? Tell me why.

You think it quite unnatural. Let us see.

The actors are, it seems, the usual three: Husband, and wife, and lover. She--but fie!

In England we'll not hear of it. Edmond, The lover, her devout chagrin doth share; Blanc-mange and absinthe are his penitent fare, Till his pale aspect makes her over-fond: So, to preclude fresh sin, he tries rosbif.

Meantime the husband is no more abused: Auguste forgives her ere the tear is used.

Then hangeth all on one tremendous IF:- IF she will choose between them. She does choose; And takes her husband, like a proper wife.

Unnatural? My dear, these things are life: And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse.

XXVI

Love ere he bleeds, an eagle in high skies, Has earth beneath his wings: from reddened eve He views the rosy dawn. In vain they weave The fatal web below while far he flies.

But when the arrow strikes him, there's a change.

He moves but in the track of his spent pain, Whose red drops are the links of a harsh chain, Binding him to the ground, with narrow range.

A subtle serpent then has Love become.

I had the eagle in my bosom erst: Henceforward with the serpent I am cursed.

I can interpret where the mouth is dumb.

Speak, and I see the side-lie of a truth.

Perchance my heart may pardon you this deed: But be no coward:- you that made Love bleed, You must bear all the venom of his tooth!

XXVII

Distraction is the panacea, Sir!

I hear my oracle of Medicine say.

Doctor! that same specific yesterday I tried, and the result will not deter A second trial. Is the devil's line Of golden hair, or raven black, composed?

And does a cheek, like any sea-sh.e.l.l rosed, Or clear as widowed sky, seem most divine?

No matter, so I taste forgetfulness.

And if the devil snare me, body and mind, Here gratefully I score:- he seemed kind, When not a soul would comfort my distress!

O sweet new world, in which I rise new made!

O Lady, once I gave love: now I take!

Lady, I must be flattered. Shouldst thou wake The pa.s.sion of a demon, be not afraid.

XXVIII

I must be flattered. The imperious Desire speaks out. Lady, I am content To play with you the game of Sentiment, And with you enter on paths perilous; But if across your beauty I throw light, To make it threefold, it must be all mine.

First secret; then avowed. For I must shine Envied,--I, lessened in my proper sight!

Be watchful of your beauty, Lady dear!

How much hangs on that lamp you cannot tell.

Most earnestly I pray you, tend it well: And men shall see me as a burning sphere; And men shall mark you eyeing me, and groan To be the G.o.d of such a grand sunflower!

I feel the promptings of Satanic power, While you do homage unto me alone.

XXIX

Am I failing? For no longer can I cast A glory round about this head of gold.

Glory she wears, but springing from the mould; Not like the consecration of the Past!

Is my soul beggared? Something more than earth I cry for still: I cannot be at peace In having Love upon a mortal lease.

I cannot take the woman at her worth!

Where is the ancient wealth wherewith I clothed Our human nakedness, and could endow With spiritual splendour a white brow That else had grinned at me the fact I loathed?

A kiss is but a kiss now! and no wave Of a great flood that whirls me to the sea.

But, as you will! we'll sit contentedly, And eat our pot of honey on the grave.

x.x.x

What are we first? First, animals; and next Intelligences at a leap; on whom Pale lies the distant shadow of the tomb, And all that draweth on the tomb for text.

Into which state comes Love, the crowning sun: Beneath whose light the shadow loses form.

We are the lords of life, and life is warm.

Intelligence and instinct now are one.

But nature says: 'My children most they seem When they least know me: therefore I decree That they shall suffer.' Swift doth young Love flee, And we stand wakened, shivering from our dream.

Then if we study Nature we are wise.

Thus do the few who live but with the day: The scientific animals are they. - Lady, this is my sonnet to your eyes.

x.x.xI

This golden head has wit in it. I live Again, and a far higher life, near her.

Some women like a young philosopher; Perchance because he is diminutive.

For woman's manly G.o.d must not exceed Proportions of the natural nursing size.

Great poets and great sages draw no prize With women: but the little lap-dog breed, Who can be hugged, or on a mantel-piece Perched up for adoration, these obtain Her homage. And of this we men are vain?

Of this! 'Tis ordered for the world's increase!

Small flattery! Yet she has that rare gift To beauty, Common Sense. I am approved.

It is not half so nice as being loved, And yet I do prefer it. What's my drift?

x.x.xII

Full faith I have she holds that rarest gift To beauty, Common Sense. To see her lie With her fair visage an inverted sky Bloom-covered, while the underlids uplift, Would almost wreck the faith; but when her mouth (Can it kiss sweetly? sweetly!) would address The inner me that thirsts for her no less, And has so long been languishing in drouth, I feel that I am matched; that I am man!