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Modern Love: XVII

George Meredith

1828 –

1909

At dinner, she is hostess, I am host.

Went the feast ever cheerfuller? She keeps

The Topic over intellectual deeps

In buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost.

With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball:

It is in truth a most contagious game:

‘Hiding the skeleton,’ shall be its name.

Such play as this, the devils might appal!

But here’s the greater wonder; in that we

Enamoured of an acting naught can tire,

Each other, like true hypocrites, admire;

Warm-lighted looks, Love’s ephemoerioe,

Shoot gaily o’er the dishes and the wine.

We waken envy of our happy lot.

Fast, sweet, and golden, shows the marriage-knot.

Dear guests, you now have seen Love’s corpse-light shine.

This poem is in the public domain.

More by this poet

Modern Love: XXX

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.

George Meredith

1909

Modern Love: XXXVI

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 gat

George Meredith

1909

Modern Love: XXXII

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!
One restless corner of my heart of 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 sex’s antidote.

George Meredith

1909

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Modern Love: XVII

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