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George Meredith (Джордж Мередит)


Modern Love. Sonnet 17. At Dinner, She is Hostess, I am Host


At dinner, she is hostess, I am host.
Went the feast ever cheerfuller? She keeps
The Topic over intellectual deeps
In buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost.
With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball:
It is in truth a most contagious game:
Hiding the Skeleton, shall be its name.
Such play as this the devils might appal!
But here's the greater wonder; in that we,
Enamoured of an acting nought can tire,
Each other, like true hypocrites, admire;
Warm-lighted looks, Love's ephemerioe,
Shoot gaily o'er the dishes and the wine.
We waken envy of our happy lot.
Fast, sweet, and golden, shows the marriage-knot.
Dear guests, you now have seen Love's corpse-light shine. 



George Meredith's other poems:
  1. On Como
  2. Atkins
  3. At The Funeral
  4. Modern Love. Sonnet 12. Not Solely that the Future She Destroys
  5. Empdeocles


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