Under yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward, Couched with her arms behind her golden head, Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly, Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. Stepping down the hill with her fair companions, Arm in arm, all against the raying West Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches, Brave in her shape, and sweeter unpossessed. Every woodland tree is flushing like the dog-wood, Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed. Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet, Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers. Here may life on death or death on life be painted. Mother of the dews, dark eye-lashed twilight, Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley's brim, Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark, Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him. This I may know: her dressing and undressing Such a change of light shows as when the skies in sport Shift from cloud to moonlight; or edging over thunder Slips a ray of sun; or sweeping into port White sails furl; or on the ocean borders White sails lean along the waves leaping green.
Powerless to speak all the ardour of my passion I catch her little hand as we listen to the lark. Sing from the South-West, bring her back the truants,Nightingale and swallow, song and dipping wing. Something friends have told her fills her heart to brimming, Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames. Had I the heart to slide one arm beneath her! Nightlong on black print-branches our beech-tree Gazes in this whiteness: nightlong could I. Cool was the woodside; cool as her white diary Keeping sweet the cream-pan; and there the boys from school, Cricketing below, rush'd brown and red with sunshine; O the dark translucence of the deep-eyed cool! The theme of his next novel, Emilia in England later renamed Sandra Belloni , was the contrast between a simple but passionate girl and some sentimental English social climbers—an excellent theme for Meredithian comedy. O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced! Front door and back of the mossed old farmhouse Open with the morn, and in a breezy link Freshly sparkles garden to stripe-shadowed orchard, Green across a rill where on sand the minnows wink.
All the are out with baskets for the primrose; Up lanes, through, they in bands. Nightlong on black print-branches our beech-tree Gazes in this whiteness: nightlong could I. Visions of her shower before me, but from eyesight Guarded she would be like the sun were she seen. Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, I would speak my heart out: heaven is my need. When at dawn she sighs, and like an to the window Turns eyes light, from dreams, Beautiful she looks, like a water-lily Bursting out of bud in of the streams. .
Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset. Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring, Tell it to forget the source that keeps it filld. Ay, but shows the South-West a ripple-feathered bosom Blown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascend Scaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunset Rich, deep like love in beauty without end. Sweeter unpossessd, have I said of her my sweetest? The final novel, The Amazing Marriage 1895 , repeats the theme of Lord Ormont—that a wife is free to leave a husband who does not recognize her as an equal. Let me hear her laughter, I would have her ever Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers.
Not only do the editors print the sonnet in block form without the indentations marking rhymes, which it had in 1817, but they also misunderstand it. Doves of the fir-wood walling high our red roof Through the long noon coo, crooning through the coo. Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring, Tell it to forget the source that keeps it fill'd. Nowhere is she seen; and if I see her nowhere, Lighting may come, straight rains and tiger sky. I might love them well but for loving more the wild ones: O my wild ones! O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced! Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmine Breathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me.
My sweet leads: she knows not why, but now she totters, Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her hands. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 12501900. Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tiptoe, Said, 'I will kiss you': she laugh'd and lean'd her cheek. Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her, Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow, Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me: Then would she hold me and never let me go? Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet, Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers. Original in but imitative of The Arabian Nights in manner, it baffled most readers, who did not know whether to regard it as or.
Here may life on death or death on life be painted. When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror, Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, I should miss but one for many boys and girls. Front door and back of the mossd old farmhouse Open with the morn, and in a breezy link Freshly sparkles garden to stripe-shadowd orchard, Green across a rill where on sand the minnows wink. Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping, Coming the rose: and unaware a cry Springs in her bosom for odours and for colour, Covert and the nightingale; she knows not why. There are not many poets whose fame rests on a single work.
Spying from the farm, herself she fetched a pitcherFull of milk, and tilted for each in turn the beak. His ordeal comes when he returns home to find his father dead and himself heir to the tailor shop and a considerable debt. Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes,Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmineBears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths. O the golden sheaf, the rustling treasure-armful! Black the driving raincloud breasts the iron gateway:She is forth to cheer a neighbour lacking mirth. Mother of the dews, dark eye-lashed twilight,Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley's brim,Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark,Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him. Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells. Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her, Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow, Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me: Then would she hold me and never let me go? Slain are the poppies that shot their random scarlet Quick amid the wheat-ears: wound about the waist, Gather'd, see these brides of Earth one blush of ripeness! Taking up poetry again, Meredith next published a volume of poems, Modern Love, and Poems of the English Roadside, with Poems and Ballads, in 1862.