��GEORGE MEREDITH

Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells.

Maiden still the morn is ; and strange she is, and secret j Strange her eyes ; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells,,

Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lighting

Wild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along, Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughter

Chill as a dull face frowning on a song. Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple-feather'd 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.

When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant to the window

Turns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams, Beautiful she looks, like a white water-lily

Bursting out of bud in havens of the streams. When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankle

In her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May, Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden-lily

Pure from the night, and splendid for the day.

Mother of the dews, dark eye-lash'd 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. Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet,

Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers. Let me hear her laughter, I would have her ever

Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers.

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