Poems. Volume 3. George Meredith

      The wind is East, the wind is West,

         Blows in and out of haven;

      The wind that blows is the wind that’s best,

         And croak, my jolly raven!

      If here awhile we jigged and laughed,

         The like we will do yonder;

      For he’s the man who masters a craft,

         And light as a lord can wander.

            So, foot the measure, Roving Tim,

               And croak, my jolly raven!

            The wind according to its whim

               Is in and out of haven.

      You live in rows of snug abodes,

         With gold, maybe, for counting;

      And mine’s the beck of the rainy roads

         Against the sun a-mounting.

      I take the day as it behaves,

         Nor shiver when ’tis airy;

      But comes a breeze, all you are on waves,

         Sick chickens o’ Mother Carey!

            So, now for next, cries Roving Tim,

               And croak, my jolly raven!

            The wind according to its whim

               Is in and out of haven.

      Sweet lass, you screw a lovely leer,

         To make a man consider.

      If you were up with the auctioneer,

         I’d be a handsome bidder.

      But wedlock clips the rover’s wing;

         She tricks him fly to spider;

      And when we get to fights in the Ring,

         It’s trumps when you play outsider.

            So, wrench and split, cries Roving Tim,

               And croak, my jolly raven!

            The wind according to its whim

               Is in and out of haven.

      Along my winding way I know

         A shady dell that’s winking;

      The very corner for Self and Co

         To do a world of thinking.

      And shall I this? and shall I that?

         Till Nature answers, ne’ther!

      Strike match and light your pipe in your hat,

         Rejoicing in sound shoe-leather!

            So lead along, cries Roving Tim,

               And croak, my jolly raven!

            The wind according to its whim

               Is in and out of haven.

      A cunning hand ’ll hand you bread,

         With freedom for your capers.

      I’m not so sure of a cunning head;

         It steers to pits or vapours.

      But as for Life, we’ll bear in sight

         The lesson Nature teaches;

      Regard it in a sailoring light,

         And treat it like thirsty leeches.

            So, fly your jib, cries Roving Tim,

               And top your boom, old raven!

            The wind according to its whim

               Is in and out of haven.

      She’ll take, to please her dame and dad,

         The shopman nicely shaven.

      She’ll learn to think o’ the marching lad

         When perchers show they’re craven.

      You say the shopman piles a heap,

         While I perhaps am fasting;

      And bless your wits, it haunts him in sleep,

         His tin-kettle chance of lasting!

            So hail the road, cries Roving Tim,

               And hail the rain, old raven!

            The wind according to its whim

               Is in and out of haven.

      He’s half a wife, yon pecker bill;

         A book and likewise preacher.

      With any soul, in a game of skill,

         He’ll prove your over-reacher.

      The reason is, his brains are bent

         On doing things right single.

      You’d wish for them when pitching your tent

         At night in a whirly dingle!

            So, off we go, cries Roving Tim,

               And on we go, old raven!

            The wind according to its whim

               Is in and out of haven.

      Lord, no, man’s lot is not for bliss;

         To call it woe is blindness:

      It’ll here a kick, and it’s there a kiss,

         And here and there a kindness.

      He starts a hare and calls her joy;

         He runs her down to sorrow:

      The dogs within him bother the boy,

         But ’tis a new day to-morrow.

            So, I at helm, cries Roving Tim,

               And you at bow, old raven!

            The wind according to its whim

               Is in and out of haven.

      A revelation came on Jane,

      The widow of a labouring swain:

      And first her body trembled sharp,

      Then all the woman was a harp

      With winds along the strings; she heard,

      Though there was neither tone nor word.

      For past our hearing was the air,

      Beyond our speaking what it bare,

      And she within herself had sight

      Of heaven at work to cleanse outright,

      To make of her a mansion fit

      For angel hosts inside to sit.

      They entered, and forthwith entranced,

      Her body braced, her members danced;

      Surprisingly the woman leapt;

      And countenance composed she kept:

      As gossip neighbours in the lane

      Declared, who saw and