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The State Of Age Post by :CMartin371 Category :Poems Author :George Meredith Date :February 2011 Read :2777

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The State Of Age

Rub thou thy battered lamp: nor claim nor beg
Honours from aught about thee. Light the young.
Thy frame is as a dusty mantle hung,
O grey one! pendant on a loosened peg.
Thou art for this our life an ancient egg,
Or a tough bird: thou hast a rudderless tongue,
Turning dead trifles, like the cock of dung,
Which runs, Time's contrast to thy halting leg.
Nature, it is most sure, not thee admires.
But hast thou in thy season set her fires
To burn from Self to Spirit through the lash,
Honoured the sons of Earth shall hold thee high:
Yea, to spread light when thy proud letter I
Drops prone and void as any thoughtless dash.

(The end)
George Meredith's poem: State Of Age

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The World's Advance The World's Advance

The World's Advance
Judge mildly the tasked world; and disinclineTo brand it, for it bears a heavy pack.You have perchance observed the inebriate's trackAt night when he has quitted the inn-sign:He plays diversions on the homeward line,Still that way bent albeit his legs are slack:A hedge may take him, but he turns not back,Nor turns this burdened world, of curving spine.'Spiral,' the memorable Lady termsOur mind's ascent: our world's advance presentsThat figure on a flat; the way of worms.Cherish the promise of its good intents,And warn it, not one instinct to effaceEre Reason ripens for the vacant place.(The end)George Meredith's poem: World's Advance

The Discipline Of Wisdom The Discipline Of Wisdom

The Discipline Of Wisdom
Rich labour is the struggle to be wise,While we make sure the struggle cannot cease.Else better were it in some bower of peaceSlothful to swing, contending with the flies.You point at Wisdom fixed on lofty skies,As mid barbarian hordes a sculptured Greece:She falls. To live and shine, she grows her fleece,Is shorn, and rubs with follies and with lies.So following her, your hewing may attainThe right to speak unto the mute, and shunThat sly temptation of the illumined brain,Deliveries oracular, self-spun.Who sweats not with the flock will seek in vainTo shed the words which are ripe fruit of sun.(The end)George