Sharp is the night, but stars with frost alive Leap off the rim of earth across the dome. It is a night to make the heavens our home More than the nest whereto apace we strive. Lengths down our road each fir-tree seems a hive, In swarms outrushing from the golden comb. They waken waves of thoughts that burst to foam: The living throb in me, the dead revive. Yon mantle clothes us: there, past mortal breath, Life glistens on the river of the death. It folds us, flesh and dust; and have we knelt, Or never knelt, or eyed as kine the springs Of radiance, the radiance enrings: And this is the soul's haven to have felt.
George Meredith - 1828-1909
Modern Love: XXXIII
‘In Paris, at the Louvre, there have I seen The sumptuously-feathered angel pierce Prone 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 grown 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?