Mary Anne (alternatively Mary Ann or Marian) Evans, better known by her pen name George Eliot, was an English novelist, journalist and translator, and one of the leading writers of the Victorian era. She is the author of seven novels, including Adam Bede (1859), The Mill on the Floss (1860), Silas Marner (1861), Middlemarch (1871–72), and Daniel Deronda (1876), most of them set in provincial England and well known for their realism and psychological insight.
She used a male pen name, she said, to ensure her works would be taken seriously. Female authors were published under their own names during Eliot's life, but she wanted to escape the stereotype of women only writing ... more »
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George Eliot Poems
Count That Day Lost
If you sit down at set of sun And count the acts that you have done, And, counting, find One self-denying deed, one word
You love the roses - so do I. I wish The sky would rain down roses, as they rain From off the shaken bush. Why will it not? Then all the valley would be pink and white
The Choir Invisible
Oh, may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence; live In pulses stirred to generosity,
Two lovers by a moss-grown spring: They leaned soft cheeks together there, Mingled the dark and sunny hair, And heard the wooing thrushes sing.
Sweet Endings Come and Go, Love
"La noche buena se viene, La noche buena se va, Y nosotros nos iremos Y no volveremos mas."
In a London Drawingroom
The sky is cloudy, yellowed by the smoke. For view there are the houses opposite Cutting the sky with one long line of wall Like solid fog: far as the eye can stretch
Mid My Gold-Brown Curls
'Mid my gold-brown curls There twined a silver hair: I plucked it idly out And scarcely knew 'twas there.
I Grant You Ample Leave
"I grant you ample leave To use the hoary formula 'I am' Naming the emptiness where thought is not; But fill the void with definition, 'I'
God Needs Antonio
Your soul was lifted by the wings today Hearing the master of the violin: You praised him, praised the great Sabastian too Who made that fine Chaconne; but did you think
Day is dying
Day is dying! Float, o song, Down the westward river, Requiem chanting to the Day, Day, the mighty giver!
The World Is Great
The world is great! The birds fly from me; The stars are golden fruit
Came a pretty maid
Came a pretty maid By the moon's pure light . . . Loved me well, she said,
The Radiant Dark
Should I long that dark were fair? Say, O song. Lacks my love aught that I should long? Dark the night with breath all flow'rs
Ay De Mi
O bird, that used to press, Thy head against my cheek With touch that seem'd to speak, And ask a tender 'yes' -
Comments about George Eliot
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Count That Day Lost
If you sit down at set of sun
And count the acts that you have done,
And, counting, find
One self-denying deed, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard,
One glance most kind
That fell like sunshine where it went --
Then you may count that day well spent.
But if, through all the livelong day,
You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay --
If, through it all
You've nothing done that you can trace
That brought the sunshine to one face--
No act most small
That helped some soul and nothing cost --
Then count that day as worse than lost.