GEORGE MEREDITH
God' of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darkened That had thee here obscure.
��Water, first of singers, o'er rocky mount and mead,
First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill, Sang of him, and flooded the ripples on the reed,
Seeking whom to waken and what ear fill. Water, sweetest soother to kiss a wound and cool,
Sweetest and divmest, the sky-born brook, Chuckled, with a whimper, and made a mirror-pool Round the guest we welcomed, the strange hand shook. God' of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darkened That had thce here obscure.
��Many swarms of wild bees descended on our fields: Stately stood the wheatstalk with head bent high: Big of heart we labour'd at storing mighty yields, Hand-like rush'd the vintage, we strung the bellied skins
Plump, and at the sealing the Youth's voice rose: Maidens clung in circle, on little fists their chins; Gentle bcasties through push'd a cold long nose. God' of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darkened That had thee here obscure.
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