Had I the heart to slide one arm beneath her,
Press her dreaming lips as her waist I folded slow.
Waking on the instant she could not but embrace me,
Ah! would she hold me and never let me go?”
This is indeed a supple young lady. Consider that she is standing, and crouching with her knees folded up, while she lies asleep in the shade. I fancy it is a troubled sleep. Consider, too, that in this verse there is an unhappy repetition of the word folded,—the last mention of that word being in the wrong tense. Consider that this is the first version of the first verse of one of the few great lyrics. It is a poor thing, at best. There are flashes of talent, but so are there in a thousand lyrics of young poets, nothing of whose work is counted immortal.
But George Meredith was great. With the industry of the great he came back to this poem. Lo! it has arisen from the grave.
“Under yonder beech-tree, single on the greensward
Couch’d with her arms behind her golden head,
Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly,