Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
George Meredith. 18281909775. Love’s Grave
MARK where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like, | |
Its skeleton shadow on the broad-back’d wave! | |
Here is a fitting spot to dig Love’s grave; | |
Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike, | |
And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand: | 5 |
In hearing of the ocean, and in sight | |
Of those ribb’d wind-streaks running into white. | |
If I the death of Love had deeply plann’d, | |
I never could have made it half so sure, | |
As by the unblest kisses which upbraid | 10 |
The full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade! | |
‘Tis morning: but no morning can restore | |
What we have forfeited. I see no sin: | |
The wrong is mix’d. In tragic life, God wot, | |
No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: | 15 |
We are betray’d by what is false within. |