George Meredith - Poems. Volume 1 стр 5.

   A brook glancing under green leaves, self-delighting, exulting,
   And full of a gurgling melody ever renewed
   Renewed thro all changes of Heaven, unceasing in sunlight,
Unceasing in moonlight, but hushed in the beams of the holier orb.

   Seest thou a Skylark whose glistening winglets ascending
   Quiver like pulses beneath the melodious dawn?
   Deep in the heart-yearning distance of heaven it flutters
Wisdom and beauty and love are the treasures it brings down at eve.

   A breath of the mountains, fresh born in the regions majestic,
   That look with their eye-daring summits deep into the sky.
   The voice of great Nature; sublime with her lofty conceptions,
Yet earnest and simple as any sweet child of the green lowly vale.

   The song of a nightingale sent thro a slumbrous valley,
   Low-lidded with twilight, and tranced with the dolorous sound,
   Tranced with a tender enchantment; the yearning of passion
That wins immortality even while panting delirious with death.

Violets, shy violets!
   How many hearts with you compare!
      Who hide themselves in thickest green,
            And thence, unseen,
   Ravish the enraptured air
   With sweetness, dewy fresh and rare!

Violets, shy violets!
   Human hearts to me shall be
      Viewless violets in the grass,
            And as I pass,
   Odours and sweet imagery
   Will wait on mine and gladden me!

Angelic love that stoops with heavenly lips
   To meet its earthly mate;
Heroic love that to its spheres eclipse
   Can dare to join its fate
With one beloved devoted human heart,
And share with it the passion and the smart,
         The undying bliss
         Of its most fleeting kiss;
         The fading grace
         Of its most sweet embrace:
   Angelic love, heroic love!
   Whose birth can only be above,
   Whose wandering must be on earth,
   Whose haven where it first had birth!
Love that can part with all but its own worth,
   And joy in every sacrifice
   That beautifies its Paradise!
And gently, like a golden-fruited vine,
With earnest tenderness itself consign,
And creeping up deliriously entwine
         Its dear delicious arms
               Round the beloved being!
         With fair unfolded charms,
               All-trusting, and all-seeing,
Grape-laden with full bunches of young wine!
While to the panting hearts dry yearning drouth
   Buds the rich dewy mouth
         Tenderly uplifted,
         Like two rose-leaves drifted
Down in a long warm sigh of the sweet South!
         Such love, such love is thine,
         Such heart is mine,
O thou of mortal visions most divine!

   Know you the low pervading breeze
               That softly sings
   In the trembling leaves of twilight trees,
As if the wind were dreaming on its wings?
   And have you marked their still degrees
   Of ebbing melody, like the strings
Of a silver harp swept by a spirits hand
      In some strange glimmering land,
               Mid gushing springs,
               And glistenings
Of waters and of planets, wild and grand!
   And have you marked in that still time
   The chariots of those shining cars
   Brighten upon the hushing dark,
               And bent to hark
That Voice, amid the poplar and the lime,
   Pause in the dilating lustre
               Of the spheral cluster;
   Pause but to renew its sweetness, deep
As dreams of heaven to souls that sleep!
   And felt, despite earths jarring wars,
               When day is done
               And dead the sun,
   Still a voice divine can sing,
   Still is there sympathy can bring
               A whisper from the stars!
Ah, with this sentience quickly will you know
How like a tree I tremble to the tones
               Of your sweet voice!
               How keenly I rejoice
   When in me with sweet motions slow
The spiritual music ebbs and moans
Lives in the lustre of those heavenly eyes,
Dies in the light of its own paradise,
Dies, and relives eternal from its death,
Immortal melodies in each deep breath;
Sweeps thro my being, bearing up to thee
Myself, the weight of its eternity;
Till, nerved to life from its ordeal fire,
It marries music with the human lyre,
Blending divine delight with loveliest desire.

Where faces are hueless, where eyelids are dewless,
   Where passion is silent and hearts never crave;
Where thought hath no theme, and where sleep hath no dream,
   In patience and peace thou art goneto thy grave!
Gone where no warning can wake thee to morning,
   Dead tho a thousand hands stretchd out to save.

Thou camst to us sighing, and singing and dying,
   How could it be otherwise, fair as thou wert?
Placidly fading, and sinking and shading
   At last to that shadow, the latest desert;
Wasting and waning, but still, still remaining.
   Alas for the hand that could deal the death-hurt!

The Summer that brightens, the Winter that whitens,
   The world and its voices, the sea and the sky,
The bloom of creation, the tie of relation,
   Allall is a blank to thine ear and thine eye;
The ear may not listen, the eye may not glisten,
   Nevermore waked by a smile or a sigh.

The tree that is rootless must ever be fruitless;
   And thou art alone in thy death and thy birth;
No last loving token of wedded love broken,
   No sign of thy singleness, sweetness and worth;
Lost as the flower that is drowned in the shower,
   Falln like a snowflake to melt in the earth.

   Take thy lute and sing
By the ruined castle walls,
Where the torrent-foam falls,
And long weeds wave:
   Take thy lute and sing,
Oer the grey ancestral grave!
   Daughter of a King,
      Tune thy string.

   Sing of happy hours,
In the roar of rushing time;
Till all the echoes chime
To the days gone by;
   Sing of passing hours
To the ever-present sky;
   Weepand let the showers
      Wake thy flowers.

   Sing of glories gone:
No more the blazoned fold
From the banner is unrolled;
The gold sun is set.
   Sing his glory gone,
For thy voice may charm him yet;
   Daughter of the dawn,
      He is gone!

   Pour forth all thy grief!
Passionately sweep the chords,
Wed them quivering to thy words;
Wild words of wail!
   Shed thy withered grief
But hold not Autumn to thy bale;
   The eddy of the leaf
      Must be brief!

   Sing up to the night:
Hard it is for streaming tears
To read the calmness of the spheres;
Coldly they shine;
   Sing up to their light;
They have views thou mayst divine
   Gain prophetic sight
      From their light!

   On the windy hills
Lo, the little harebell leans
On the spire-grass that it queens,
With bonnet blue;
   Trusting love instils
Love and subject reverence true;
   Learn what love instils
      On the hills!

   By the bare wayside
Placid snowdrops hang their cheeks,
Softly touchd with pale green streaks,
Soon, soon, to die;
   On the clothed hedgeside
Bands of rosy beauties vie,
   In their prophesied
      Summer pride.

   From the snowdrop learn;
Not in her pale life lives she,
But in her blushing prophecy.
Thus be thy hopes,
   Living but to yearn
Upwards to the hidden scopes;
   Even within the urn
      Let them burn!

   Heroes of thy race
Warriors with golden crowns,
Ghostly shapes with marbled frowns
Stare thee to stone;
   Matrons of thy race
Pass before thee making moan;
   Full of solemn grace
      Is their pace.

   Piteous their despair!
Piteous their looks forlorn!
Terrible their ghostly scorn!
Still hold thou fast;
   Heed not their despair!
Thou art thy future, not thy past;
   Let them glance and glare
      Thro the air.

   Thou the ruins bud,
Be not that moist rich-smelling weed
With its arras-sembled brede,
And ruin-haunting stalk;
   Thou the ruins bud,
Be still the rose that lights the walk,
   Mix thy fragrant blood
      With the flood!