Yet it was plain she struggled, and that salt <br />Of righteous feeling made her pitiful. <br />Poor twisting worm, so queenly beautiful! <br />Where came the cleft between us? whose the fault? <br />My tears are on thee, that have rarely dropped <br />As balm for any bitter wound of mine: <br />My breast will open for thee at a sign! <br />But, no: we are two reed-pipes, coarsely stopped: <br />The God once filled them with his mellow breath; <br />And they were music till he flung them down, <br />Used! used! Hear now the discord-loving clown <br />Puff his gross spirit in them, worse than death <br />I do not know myself without thee more: <br />In this unholy battle I grow base: <br />If the same soul be under the same face, <br />Speak, and a taste of that old time restore!<br /><br />George Meredith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/modern-love-viii-yet-it-was-plain-she-struggled/
