Читать книгу Poems. Volume 2 - George Meredith - Страница 17

An inspiration caught from dubious hues

Filled him, and mystic wrynesses he chased;

For they lead farther than the single-faced,

Wave subtler promise when desire pursues.

The moon of cloud discoloured was his Muse,

His pipe the reed of the old moaning waste.

Love was to him with anguish fast enlaced,

And Beauty where she walked blood-shot the dews.

Men railed at such a singer; women thrilled

Responsively: he sang not Nature’s own

Divinest, but his lyric had a tone,

As ’twere a forest-echo of her voice:

What barrenly they yearn for seemed distilled

From what they dread, who do through tears rejoice.