George Meredith Quotes

’Tis Ireland gives England her soldiers, her generals too.

For singing till his heaven fills ’Tis love of earth that he instils, And ever winging up and up, Our valley is his golden cup, And he the wine which overflows.

Soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars With memory of the old revolt from Awe, He reached the middle height, and at the stars, Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank. Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.

‘But do care a bit for flattery, my lady,’ said De Craye. ‘’Tis the finest of the Arts; we might call it moral sculpture. Adepts in it can cut their friends to any shape they like.’

A dainty rogue in porcelain.