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Poetries by George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans)

Writer, born monday november 22, 1819 in South Farm, Arbury (United Kingdom), died wednesday december 22, 1880 in London (United Kingdom)
You can find this author also in Quotes & Aphorisms.
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Sweet Springtime

It was in the prime
Of the sweet springtime
In the linnet's throat
Trembled the love note,
And the love-stirred air
Thrilled the blossoms there.
Little shadows danced,
Each a tiny elf
Happy in large light
And the thinnest self.

It was but a minute
In a far-off spring,
But each gentle thing,
Sweetly wooing linnet,
Soft thrilled hawthorn tree,
Happy shadowy elf,
With the thinnest self,
Live on still in me.
It was in the prime
Of the past springtime!
George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans)
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    Came A Pretty Maid

    Came a pretty maid
    By the moon's pure light ...
    Loved me well, she said,
    Eyes with tears all bright,
    a pretty maid.

    But too late she strayed,
    Moonlight pure was there ...
    She was nought but shade,
    Hiding the more fair,
    The heav'nly maid.
    George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans)
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      God Needs Antonio

      Your soul was lifted by the wings today
      Hearing the master of the violin:
      You praised him, praised the great Sabastian too
      Who made that fine Chaconne; but did you think
      Of old Antonio Stradivari? - him
      Who a good century and a half ago
      Put his true work in that brown instrument
      And by the nice adjustment of its frame
      Gave it responsive life, continuous
      With the master's finger-tips and perfected
      Like them by delicate rectitude of use.
      That plain white-aproned man, who stood at work
      Patient and accurate full fourscore years,
      Cherished his sight and touch by temperance,
      And since keen sense is love of perfectness
      Made perfect violins, the needed paths
      For inspiration and high mastery.

      No simpler man than he; he never cried,
      "why was I born to this monotonous task
      Of making violins?" Or flung them down
      To suit with hurling act well-hurled curse
      At labor on such perishable stuff.
      Hence neighbors in Cremona held him dull,
      Called him a slave, a mill-horse, a machine.

      Naldo, a painter of eclectic school,
      Knowing all tricks of style at thirty-one,
      And weary of them, while Antonio
      At sixty-nine wrought placidly his best,
      Making the violin you heard today -
      Naldo would tease him oft to tell his aims.
      "Perhaps thou hast some pleasant vice to feed -
      the love of louis d'ors in heaps of four,
      Each violin a heap - I've naught to blame;
      My vices waste such heaps. But then, why work
      With painful nicety?"

      Antonio then:
      "I like the gold - well, yes - but not for meals.
      And as my stomach, so my eye and hand,
      And inward sense that works along with both,
      Have hunger that can never feed on coin.
      Who draws a line and satisfies his soul,
      Making it crooked where it should be straight?
      Antonio Stradivari has an eye
      That winces at false work and loves the true."
      Then Naldo: "'Tis a petty kind of fame
      At best, that comes of making violins;
      And saves no masses, either. Thou wilt go
      To purgatory none the less."

      But he:
      "'Twere purgatory here to make them ill;
      And for my fame - when any master holds
      'Twixt chin and hand a violin of mine,
      He will be glad that Stradivari lived,
      Made violins, and made them of the best.
      The masters only know whose work is good:
      They will choose mine, and while God gives them skill
      I give them instruments to play upon,
      God choosing me to help him.

      " What! Were God
      at fault for violins, thou absent? "

      " Yes;
      He were at fault for Stradivari's work. "

      " Why, many hold Giuseppe's violins
      As good as thine. "

      " May be: they are different.
      His quality declines: he spoils his hand
      With over-drinking. But were his the best,
      He could not work for two. My work is mine,
      And, heresy or not, if my hand slacked
      I should rob God - since his is fullest good -
      Leaving a blank instead of violins.
      I say, not God himself can make man's best
      Without best men to help him.

      'Tis God gives skill,
      But not without men's hands: he could not make
      Antonio Stradivari's violins
      Without Antonio. Get thee to thy easel. "
      George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans)
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        I Grant You Ample Leave

        "I grant you ample leave
        To use the hoary formula" I am "
        Naming the emptiness where thought is not;
        But fill the void with definition," I "
        Will be no more a datum than the words
        You link false inference with, the 'Sincè & 'sò
        That, true or not, make up the atom-whirl.
        Resolve your" Ego ", it is all one web
        With vibrant ether clotted into worlds:
        Your subject, self, or self-assertive" I "
        Turns nought but object, melts to molecules,
        Is stripped from naked Being with the rest
        Of those rag-garments named the Universe.
        Or if, in strife to keep your" Ego "strong
        You make it weaver of the etherial light,
        Space, motion, solids & the dream of Time - -
        Why, still 'tis Being looking from the dark,
        The core, the centre of your consciousness,
        That notes your bubble-world: sense, pleasure, pain,
        What are they but a shifting otherness,
        Phantasmal flux of moments?"
        George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans)
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          Ay De Mi

          O bird, that used to press,
          Thy head against my cheek
          With touch that seem'd to speak,
          And ask a tender "yes" -
          Ay de mi, my bird:
          Ay de mi, my bird, my bird -
          Ay de mi, my bird.

          O tender downy breast,
          And warmly beating heart,
          That beating seem'd a part
          Of me who gave it rest -
          Ay de mi, my bird:
          Ay de mi, my bird, my bird -
          Ay de mi, my bird.
          George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans)
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            Roses

            You love the roses - so do I. I wish
            The sky would rain down roses, as they rain
            From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?
            Then all the valley would be pink and white
            And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
            As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
            Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!
            George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans)
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              In A London Drawingroom

              The sky is cloudy, yellowed by the smoke.
              For view there are the houses opposite
              Cutting the sky with one long line of wall
              Like solid fog: far as the eye can stretch
              Monotony of surface & of form
              Without a break to hang a guess upon.
              No bird can make a shadow as it flies,
              For all is shadow, as in ways o'erhung
              By thickest canvass, where the golden rays
              Are clothed in hemp. No figure lingering
              Pauses to feed the hunger of the eye
              Or rest a little on the lap of life.
              All hurry on & look upon the ground,
              Or glance unmarking at the passers by
              The wheels are hurrying too, cabs, carriages
              All closed, in multiplied identity.
              The world seems one huge prison-house & court
              Where men are punished at the slightest cost,
              With lowest rate of colour, warmth & joy.
              George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans)
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                Sweet Endings Come And Go, Love

                Sweet evenings come and go, love,
                They came and went of yore:
                This evening of our life, love,
                Shall go and come no more.

                When we have passed away, love,
                All things will keep their name;
                But yet no life on earth, love,
                With ours will be the same.

                The daisies will be there, love,
                The stars in heaven will shine:
                I shall not feel thy wish, love,
                Nor thou my hand in thine.

                A better time will come, love,
                And better souls be born:
                I would not be the best, love,
                To leave thee now forlorn.
                George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans)
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