Poems by George Meredith Volume I Part 27

One restless corner of my heart or head, That holds a dying something never dead, Still frets, though Nature giveth all she can.

It means, that woman is not, I opine, Her s.e.x's antidote. Who seeks the asp For serpent's bites? 'Twould calm me could I clasp Shrieking Bacchantes with their souls of wine!

x.x.xIII

'In Paris, at the Louvre, there have I seen The sumptuously-feathered angel pierce p.r.o.ne Lucifer, descending. Looked he fierce, Showing the fight a fair one? Too serene!

The young Pharsalians did not disarray Less willingly their locks of floating silk: That suckling mouth of his upon the milk Of heaven might still be feasting through the fray.

Oh, Raphael! when men the Fiend do fight, They conquer not upon such easy terms.

Half serpent in the struggle grow these worms.

And does he grow half human, all is right.'

This to my Lady in a distant spot, Upon the theme: WHILE MIND IS MASTERING CLAY, GROSS CLAY INVADES IT. If the spy you play, My wife, read this! Strange love talk, is it not?

x.x.xIV

Madam would speak with me. So, now it comes: The Deluge or else Fire! She's well; she thanks My husbandship. Our chain on silence clanks.

Time leers between, above his twiddling thumbs.

Am I quite well? Most excellent in health!

The journals, too, I diligently peruse.

Vesuvius is expected to give news: Niagara is no noisier. By stealth Our eyes dart scrutinizing snakes. She's glad I'm happy, says her quivering under-lip.

'And are not you?' 'How can I be?' 'Take ship!

For happiness is somewhere to be had.'

'Nowhere for me!' Her voice is barely heard.

I am not melted, and make no pretence.

With commonplace I freeze her, tongue and sense.

Niagara or Vesuvius is deferred.

x.x.xV

It is no vulgar nature I have wived.

Secretive, sensitive, she takes a wound Deep to her soul, as if the sense had swooned, And not a thought of vengeance had survived.

No confidences has she: but relief Must come to one whose suffering is acute.

O have a care of natures that are mute!

They punish you in acts: their steps are brief.

What is she doing? What does she demand From Providence or me? She is not one Long to endure this torpidly, and shun The drugs that crowd about a woman's hand.

At Forfeits during snow we played, and I Must kiss her. 'Well performed!' I said: then she: "Tis hardly worth the money, you agree?'

Save her? What for? To act this wedded lie!

x.x.xVI

My Lady unto Madam makes her bow.

The charm of women is, that even while You're probed by them for tears, you yet may smile, Nay, laugh outright, as I have done just now.

The interview was gracious: they anoint (To me aside) each other with fine praise: Discriminating compliments they raise, That hit with wondrous aim on the weak point: My Lady's nose of Nature might complain.

It is not fashioned aptly to express Her character of large-browed steadfastness.

But Madam says: Thereof she may be vain!

Now, Madam's faulty feature is a glazed And inaccessible eye, that has soft fires, Wide gates, at love-time, only. This admires My Lady. At the two I stand amazed.

x.x.xVII

Along the garden terrace, under which A purple valley (lighted at its edge By smoky torch-flame on the long cloud-ledge Whereunder dropped the chariot) glimmers rich, A quiet company we pace, and wait The dinner-bell in prae-digestive calm.

So sweet up violet banks the Southern balm Breathes round, we care not if the bell be late: Though here and there grey seniors question Time In irritable coughings. With slow foot The low rosed moon, the face of Music mute, Begins among her silent bars to climb.

As in and out, in silvery dusk, we thread, I hear the laugh of Madam, and discern My Lady's heel before me at each turn.

Our tragedy, is it alive or dead?

x.x.xVIII

Give to imagination some pure light In human form to fix it, or you shame The devils with that hideous human game:- Imagination urging appet.i.te!

Thus fallen have earth's greatest Gogmagogs, Who dazzle us, whom we can not revere: Imagination is the charioteer That, in default of better, drives the hogs.

So, therefore, my dear Lady, let me love!

My soul is arrowy to the light in you.

You know me that I never can renew The bond that woman broke: what would you have?

'Tis Love, or Vileness! not a choice between, Save petrifaction! What does Pity here?

She killed a thing, and now it's dead, 'tis dear.

Oh, when you counsel me, think what you mean!

x.x.xIX

She yields: my Lady in her n.o.blest mood Has yielded: she, my golden-crowned rose!

The bride of every sense! more sweet than those Who breathe the violet breath of maidenhood.

O visage of still music in the sky!

Soft moon! I feel thy song, my fairest friend!

True harmony within can apprehend Dumb harmony without. And hark! 'tis nigh!

Belief has struck the note of sound: a gleam Of living silver shows me where she shook Her long white fingers down the shadowy brook, That sings her song, half waking, half in dream.

What two come here to mar this heavenly tune?

A man is one: the woman bears my name, And honour. Their hands touch! Am I still tame?

G.o.d, what a dancing spectre seems the moon!

XL

I bade my Lady think what she might mean.

Know I my meaning, I? Can I love one, And yet be jealous of another? None Commits such folly. Terrible Love, I ween, Has might, even dead, half sighing to upheave The lightless seas of selfishness amain: Seas that in a man's heart have no rain To fall and still them. Peace can I achieve, By turning to this fountain-source of woe, This woman, who's to Love as fire to wood?

She breathed the violet breath of maidenhood Against my kisses once! but I say, No!

The thing is mocked at! Helplessly afloat, I know not what I do, whereto I strive.

The dread that my old love may be alive Has seized my nursling new love by the throat.

XLI

How many a thing which we cast to the ground, When others pick it up becomes a gem!

We grasp at all the wealth it is to them; And by reflected light its worth is found.

Yet for us still 'tis nothing! and that zeal Of false appreciation quickly fades.

This truth is little known to human shades, How rare from their own instinct 'tis to feel!

They waste the soul with spurious desire, That is not the ripe flame upon the bough.

We two have taken up a lifeless vow To rob a living pa.s.sion: dust for fire!

Madam is grave, and eyes the clock that tells Approaching midnight. We have struck despair Into two hearts. O, look we like a pair Who for fresh nuptials joyfully yield all else?

XLII

I am to follow her. There is much grace In woman when thus bent on martyrdom.

They think that dignity of soul may come, Perchance, with dignity of body. Base!

But I was taken by that air of cold And statuesque sedateness, when she said 'I'm going'; lit a taper, bowed her head, And went, as with the stride of Pallas bold.

Fleshly indifference horrible! The hands Of Time now signal: O, she's safe from me!