George Meredith (Джордж Мередит)

The State of Age

Rub thou thy battered lamp: nor claim nor beg
Honours from aught about thee. Light the young.
Thy frame is as a dusty mantle hung,
O grey one! pendant on a loosened peg.
Thou art for this our life an ancient egg,
Or a tough bird: thou hast a rudderless tongue,
Turning dead trifles, like the cock of dung,
Which runs, Time's contrast to thy halting leg.
Nature, it is most sure, not thee admires.
But hast thou in thy season set her fires
To burn from Self to Spirit through the lash,
Honoured the sons of Earth shall hold thee high:
Yea, to spread light when thy proud letter I
Drops prone and void as any thoughtless dash. 

1. Modern Love. Sonnet 23. 'Tis Christmas Weather
2. Modern Love. Sonnet 8. Yet it was Plain She Struggled, and that Salt
3. Modern Love. Sonnet 46. At Last We Parley
4. A Ballad of Past Meridian
5. Modern Love. Sonnet 27. Distraction is the Panacea, Sir!

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