George Eliot has the heart of Sappho; but the face, with the long proboscis, the protruding teeth of the Apocalyptic horse, betrayed animality.
It's past parsons to console us: No, nor no doctor fetch for me: I can die without my bolus; Two of a trade, lass, never agree! Parson and Doctor!--don't they love rarely Fighting the devil in other men's fields! Stand up yourself and match him fairly: Then see how the rascal yields!
The season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures.
Jealousy is love bed of burning snarl.
That rarest gift to Beauty, Common Sense!
A woman who is not quite a fool will forgive your being but a man, if you are surely that. . .
But O the truth, the truth. The many eyes That look on it The diverse things they see.
O have a care of natures that are mute!
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.
The well of true wit is truth itself.
Woman's reason is in the milk of her breasts.
I expect Woman will be the last thing civilized by Man.
She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!
Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, I would speak my heart out heaven is my need.
Prayer for worldly goods is worse than fruitless, but prayer for strength of soul is that passion of the soul which catches the gift it seeks.
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.
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.
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.
What a dusty answer gets the soul When hot for certainties in this our life!
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.
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.
Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.
Much benevolence of the passive order may be traced to a disinclination to inflict pain upon oneself.
The man of science is nothing if not a poet gone wrong.
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