Poem by George Meredith

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. 

1. Modern Love. Sonnet 31. This Golden Head has Wit in it
2. Modern Love. Sonnet 30. What are We First?
3. King Harald's Trance
4. Atkins
5. Hawarden

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