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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.

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
Giving
Sun
Personality
Pure
Millions
Salutes
Free
Taint
Voice
Suns
Song
Salute
Spirit
Rejoice

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How many a thing which we cast to the ground, When others pick it up, becomes a gem!
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Sentimentalists are they who seek to enjoy without incurring the Immense Debtorship for a thing done.
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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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Published memoirs indicate the end of a man's activity, and that he acknowledges the end.
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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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Much benevolence of the passive order may be traced to a disinclination to inflict pain upon oneself.
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Possession without obligation to the object possessed approaches felicity.
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See ye not, Courtesy is the true Alchemy, turning to gold all it touches and tries?
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She [Comedy] it is who proposes the correcting of pretentiousness, of inflation, of dulness, and of the vestiges of rawness and grossness to be found among us. She is the ultimate civilizer, the polisher, a sweet cook.
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Who rises from prayer a better man, his prayer is answered.
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Chance works for us when we are good captains.
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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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The most dire disaster in love is the death of imagination.
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Friendship, I fancy, means one heart between two.
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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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Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, I would speak my heart out heaven is my need.
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Among the Diaries beginning with the second quarter of our century, there is frequent mention of a lady then becoming famous for her beauty and her wit: an unusual combination, in the deliberate syllables of one of the writers, who is, however, not disposed to personal irony when speaking of her.
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The well of true wit is truth itself.
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That rarest gift to Beauty, Common Sense!
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