Poems by George Meredith Volume Ii Part 36

Rain! O the glad refresher of the grain!

And welcome waterspouts, had we sweet rain!

II

Ah, what is Marriage, says each pouting maid, When she who wedded with the soldier hides At home as good as widowed in the shade, A lighthouse to the girls that would be brides: Nor dares to give a lad an ogle, nor To dream of dancing, but must hang and moan, Her husband in the war, And she to lie alone.

Rain! O the glad refresher of the grain!

And welcome waterspouts, had we sweet rain!

III

They have not known; they are not in the stream; Light as the flying seed-ball is their play, The silly maids! and happy souls they seem; Yet Grief would not change fates with such as they.

They have not struck the roots which meet the fires Beneath, and bind us fast with Earth, to know The strength of her desires, The sternness of her woe.

Rain! O the glad refresher of the grain!

And welcome waterspouts, had we sweet rain!

IV

Now, shepherd, see thy word, where without shower A borderless low blotting Westward spreads.

The hall-clock holds the valley on the hour; Across an inner chamber thunder treads: The dead leaf trips, the tree-top swings, the floor Of dust whirls, dropping lumped: near thunder speaks, And drives the dames to door, Their kerchiefs flapped at cheeks.

Rain! O the glad refresher of the grain!

And welcome waterspouts of blessed rain!

V

Through night, with bedroom window wide for air, Lay Susan tranced to hear all heaven descend: And gurgling voices came of Earth, and rare, Past flowerful, breathings, deeper than life's end, From her heaved breast of sacred common mould; Whereby this lone-laid wife was moved to feel Unworded things and old To her pained heart appeal.

Rain! O the glad refresher of the grain!

And down in deluges of blessed rain!

VI

At morn she stood to live for ear and sight, Love sky or cloud, or rose or gra.s.ses drenched.

A lureful devil, that in glow-worm light Set languor writhing all its folds, she quenched.

But she would muse when neighbours praised her face, Her services, and staunchness to her mate: Knowing by some dim trace, The change might bear a date.

Rain! O the glad refresher of the grain!

Thrice beauteous is our sunshine after rain!

MOTHER TO BABE

I

Fleck of sky you are, Dropped through branches dark, O my little one, mine!

Promise of the star, Outpour of the lark; Beam and song divine.

II

See this precious gift, Steeping in new birth All my being, for sign Earth to heaven can lift, Heaven descend on earth, Both in one be mine!

III

Life in light you gla.s.s When you peep and coo, You, my little one, mine!

Brooklet chirps to gra.s.s, Daisy looks in dew Up to dear sunshine.

WOODLAND PEACE

Sweet as Eden is the air, And Eden-sweet the ray.

No Paradise is lost for them Who foot by branching root and stem, And lightly with the woodland share The change of night and day.

Here all say, We serve her, even as I: We brood, we strive to sky, We gaze upon decay, We wot of life through death, How each feeds each we spy; And is a tangle round, Are patient; what is dumb We question not, nor ask The silent to give sound, The hidden to unmask, The distant to draw near.

And this the woodland saith: I know not hope or fear; I take whate'er may come; I raise my head to aspects fair, From foul I turn away.

Sweet as Eden is the air, And Eden-sweet the ray.

THE QUESTION WHITHER

I

When we have thrown off this old suit, So much in need of mending, To sink among the naked mute, Is that, think you, our ending?

We follow many, more we lead, And you who sadly turf us, Believe not that all living seed Must flower above the surface.

II

Sensation is a gracious gift, But were it cramped to station, The prayer to have it cast adrift Would spout from all sensation.

Enough if we have winked to sun, Have sped the plough a season; There is a soul for labour done, Endureth fixed as reason.

III

Then let our trust be firm in Good, Though we be of the fasting; Our questions are a mortal brood, Our work is everlasting.

We children of Beneficence Are in its being sharers; And Whither vainer sounds than Whence, For word with such wayfarers.

OUTER AND INNER

I