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The man of science is nothing if not a poet gone wrong.

George Meredith

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George Meredith
Age: 81 †
Born: 1828
Born: February 12
Died: 1909
Died: May 18
Novelist
Poet
Prosaist
Writer
Portsmouth
England
Poet
Poetry
Gone
Wrong
Science
Nothing
Men

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A house with a great wine stored below lives in our imagination as a joyful house, fast and splendidly rooted in the soil.
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Comedy is a game played to throw reflections upon social life, and it deals with human nature in the drawing-room of civilized men and women, where we have no dust of the struggling outer world, no mire, no violent crashes, to make the correctness of the representation convincing.
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Earth, the mother of all, Moves on her stedfast way, Gathering, flinging, sowing. Mortals, we live in her day, She in her children is growing.
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The song seraphically free Of taint of personality, So pure that it salutes the suns The voice of one for millions, In whom the millions rejoice For giving their one spirit voice.
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Days, when the ball of our vision Had eagles that flew unabashed to sun When the graps on the bow was decision, And arrow and hand and eye were one When the Pleasures, like waves to a swimmer, Came heaving for rapture ahead! - Invoke them, they dwindle, they glimmer As lights over mounds of the dead.
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When I was quite a boy I had a spasm of religion which lasted six weeks... But I never since have swallowed the Christian fable.
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God's rarest blessing is, after all, a good woman!
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The well of true wit is truth itself.
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Woman's reason is in the milk of her breasts.
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Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, I would speak my heart out heaven is my need.
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The sun is coming down to earth, and the fields and the waters shout to him golden shouts.
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My religion of life is always to be cheerful.
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We are betrayed by what is false within
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Jealousy is love bed of burning snarl.
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A human act once set in motion flows on forever to the great account. Our deathlessness is in what we do, not in what we are.
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Much benevolence of the passive order may be traced to a disinclination to inflict pain upon oneself.
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Friendship, I fancy, means one heart between two.
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Chance works for us when we are good captains.
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George Eliot has the heart of Sappho but the face, with the long proboscis, the protruding teeth of the Apocalyptic horse, betrayed animality.
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Who rises from prayer a better man, his prayer is answered.
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