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Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, I would speak my heart out heaven is my need.

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
Needs
Heart
Prayer
Would
Alone
Heaven
Speak
Place
Find
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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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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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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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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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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The man of science is nothing if not a poet gone wrong.
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The future not being born, my friend, we will abstain from baptizing it.
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Who rises from prayer a better man, his prayer is answered.
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God's rarest blessing is, after all, a good woman!
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A woman who is not quite a fool will forgive your being but a man, if you are surely that. . .
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Jealousy is love bed of burning snarl.
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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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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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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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See ye not, Courtesy is the true Alchemy, turning to gold all it touches and tries?
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There is nothing the body suffers which the soul may not profit by.
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Chance works for us when we are good captains.
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Possession without obligation to the object possessed approaches felicity.
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The well of true wit is truth itself.
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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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