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.

Enter these enchanted woods, You who dare.

‘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.

Much benevolence of the passive order may be traced to a disinclination to inflict pain upon oneself.

O have a care of natures that are mute!

He fainted on his vengefulness, and strove To ape the magnanimity of love.

It became known that death had taken Mr Melchisedec Harrington, and struck one off the list of living tailors.

Kissing don’t last: cookery do!

Happy happy time, when the white star hovers Low over dim fields fresh with blooming dew, Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness, Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew.

Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried, Brooding o’er the gloom, spins the brown eve-jar.

Who rises from prayer a better man, his prayer is answered.

There is nothing the body suffers the soul may not profit by.