FridayAug 08, 2025
Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969
George Meredith, OM (February 12, 1828 - May 18, 1909) was an English novelist and poet.
Not till the fire is dying in the grate, Look we for any kinship with the stars.
Lowly, with a broken neck, The crocus lays her cheek to mire.
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.
But how divine is utterance! she said. As we to the brutes, poets are to us.
On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose, Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend ... He reached a 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.
Cynicism is intellectual dandyism.
Kissing don't last: cookery do!
I expect that Woman will be the last thing civilized by Man!
Speech is the small change of silence.
There is nothing the body suffers that the soul may not profit by.
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