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The Question Whither Post by :Holly Category :Poems Author :George Meredith Date :February 2011 Read :1611

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The Question Whither


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.


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.


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.

(The end)
George Meredith's poem: Question Whither

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Outer And Inner Outer And Inner

Outer And Inner
IFrom twig to twig the spider weavesAt noon his webbing fine.So near to mute the zephyrs fluteThat only leaflets dance.The sun draws out of hazel leavesA smell of woodland wine.I wake a swarm to sudden stormAt any step's advance.IIAlong my path is bugloss blue,The star with fruit in moss;The foxgloves drop from throat to topA daily lesser bell.The blackest shadow, nurse of dew,Has orange skeins across;And keenly red is one thin threadThat flashing seems to swell.IIIMy world I note ere fancy comes,Minutest hushed observe:What busy bits of motioned witsThrough antlered mosswork strive.But now so low the stillness hums,My springs of seeing

Woodland Peace Woodland Peace

Woodland Peace
Sweet as Eden is the air,And Eden-sweet the ray.No Paradise is lost for themWho foot by branching root and stem,And lightly with the woodland shareThe 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 dumbWe question not, nor askThe 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