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Outer And Inner Post by :candlestick Category :Poems Author :George Meredith Date :February 2011 Read :2678

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Outer And Inner


From twig to twig the spider weaves
At noon his webbing fine.
So near to mute the zephyrs flute
That only leaflets dance.
The sun draws out of hazel leaves
A smell of woodland wine.
I wake a swarm to sudden storm
At any step's advance.


Along my path is bugloss blue,
The star with fruit in moss;
The foxgloves drop from throat to top
A daily lesser bell.
The blackest shadow, nurse of dew,
Has orange skeins across;
And keenly red is one thin thread
That flashing seems to swell.


My world I note ere fancy comes,
Minutest hushed observe:
What busy bits of motioned wits
Through antlered mosswork strive.
But now so low the stillness hums,
My springs of seeing swerve,
For half a wink to thrill and think
The woods with nymphs alive.


I neighbour the invisible
So close that my consent
Is only asked for spirits masked
To leap from trees and flowers.
And this because with them I dwell
In thought, while calmly bent
To read the lines dear Earth designs
Shall speak her life on ours.


Accept, she says; it is not hard
In woods; but she in towns
Repeats, accept; and have we wept,
And have we quailed with fears,
Or shrunk with horrors, sure reward
We have whom knowledge crowns;
Who see in mould the rose unfold,
The soul through blood and tears.

(The end)
George Meredith's poem: Outer And Inner

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Nature And Life Nature And Life

Nature And Life
ILeave the uproar: at a leapThou shalt strike a woodland path,Enter silence, not of sleep,Under shadows, not of wrath;Breath which is the spirit's bathIn the old Beginnings find,And endow them with a mind,Seed for seedling, swathe for swathe.That gives Nature to us, thisGive we her, and so we kiss.IIFruitful is it so: but hearHow within the shell thou art,Music sounds; nor other nearCan to such a tremor start.Of the waves our life is part;They our running harvests bear:Back to them for manful air,Laden with the woodland's heart!That gives Battle to us, thisGive we it, and good the kiss.(The end)George

The Question Whither The Question Whither

The Question Whither
IWhen 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 seedMust flower above the surface.IISensation is a gracious gift,But were it cramped to station,The prayer to have it cast adriftWould 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.IIIThen let our trust be firm in Good,Though we be of the fasting;Our questions are a mortal brood,Our work is everlasting.We