Who now reads him, who now cares?  George Meredith (1828–1909) was once a name to conjure with, one of the last great High Victorian writers, a peer of Thomas Hardy and Henry James. His 1859 novel “The Ordeal of Richard Feverel” brought him public fame. “The Egoist” (1879) and “Diana of the Crossways” (1885) were considered additions to the canon of classic novels. His poetry was successful too. His 1881 “The Lark Ascending,” describing a bird in flight, is perfect of its pastoral kind, and it inspired Ralph Vaughan Williams to write a 1914 instrumental work with the same title.

And then there is “Modern Love,” Meredith’s 1862 sequence of fifty poems about a failing marriage. Written in a curious pseudo-sonnet form, the 16-line poems trace out in pentameter the incidents, the words spoken and unspoken, that reveal the collapse of love, sympathy, and any desire for mutual understanding in a couple. In today’s Poem of the Day, for example — the 35th in the sequence, beginning with the horrifying resignation of realizing that “Madam would speak with me” — the husband in Meredith’s near novel-in-verse knows that his wife’s “quivering under-lip” means that she is near to bursting into either tears or raging anger (Niagara or Vesuvius).

And he is concerned only to circumvent any such meaningful exchange. They speak in platitudes about their health and the news — so that “With commonplace I freeze her, tongue and sense,” and thereby the husband escapes the drama he can no longer feel worth the effort. It’s a stunning performance of Meredith’s skill at observing human interaction, and it reminds us that maybe the fading of the Victorian writer is a loss for us.

Modern Love: XXXIV (“Madam would speak with me”)
by George Meredith

Madam would speak with me. So, now it comes:
The Deluge or else Fire! She’s well; she thanks
My husbandship. Our chain on silence clanks.
Time leers between, above his twiddling thumbs.
Am I quite well? Most excellent in health!
The journals, too, I diligently peruse.
Vesuvius is expected to give news:
Niagara is no noisier. By stealth
Our eyes dart scrutinizing snakes. She’s glad
I’m happy, says her quivering under-lip.
‘And are not you?’ ‘How can I be?’ ‘Take ship!
For happiness is somewhere to be had.’
‘Nowhere for me!’ Her voice is barely heard.
I am not melted, and make no pretence.
With commonplace I freeze her, tongue and sense.
Niagara or Vesuvius is deferred.

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With “Poem of the Day,” The New York Sun offers a daily portion of verse selected by Joseph Bottum with the help of the North Carolina poet Sally Thomas, the Sun’s associate poetry editor. Tied to the day, or the season, or just individual taste, the poems will be typically drawn from the lesser-known portion of the history of English verse. In the coming months we will be reaching out to contemporary poets for examples of current, primarily formalist work, to show that poetry can still serve as a delight to the ear, an instruction to the mind, and a tonic for the soul.