Poem by George Meredith

At the Close

To Thee, dear God of Mercy, both appeal,
Who straightway sound the call to arms. Thou know'st;
And that black spot in each embattled host,
Spring of the blood-stream, later wilt reveal.
Now is it red artillery and white steel;
Till on a day will ring the victor's boast,
That 'tis Thy chosen towers uppermost,
Where Thy rejected grovels under heel.
So in all times of man's descent insane
To brute, did strength and craft combining strike,
Even as a God of Armies, his fell blow.
But at the close he entered Thy domain,
Dear God of Mercy, and if lion-like
He tore the fall'n, the Eternal was his Foe. 

1. Mother to Babe
2. Modern Love. Sonnet 38. Give to Imagination
3. Modern Love. Sonnet 41. How Many a Thing which We Cast to the Ground
4. Modern Love. Sonnet 23. 'Tis Christmas Weather
5. Angela Burdett-Coutts

Ina Coolbrith At the Close ("YOUTH, that is sweetest, lies still, lies chill in death!")

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