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Quote by George Eliot
When death comes it is never our tenderness that we repent from, b

When death comes it is never our tenderness that we repent from, but our severity. – George Eliot

Other quotes by George Eliot

How lovely the little river is, with its dark changing wavelets! It seems to me like a living companion while I wander along the bank, and listen to its low, placid voice… – George Eliot

Category:
Rivers
Author
George Eliot
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It is in these acts called trivialities that the seeds of joy are forever wasted, until men and women look round with haggard faces at the devastation their own waste has made, and say, the earth bears no harvest of sweetness — calling their denial knowledge. – George Eliot

Category:
Things, Little Things
Author
George Eliot
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Other Quotes from
Death
category

I am one who believes that one of the greatest dangers of advertising is not that of misleading people, but that of boring them to death. – Leo Burnett

Category:
Death

Life and death are balanced on the edge of a razor. – Homer, Iliad

Category:
Death

Because of its tremendous solemnity death is the light in which great passions, both good and bad, become transparent, no longer limited by outward appearences. – Soren Kierkegaard

Category:
Death

Each instant of life is a step toward death. – Pierre Corneille

Category:
Death

Random Quotes

As you reach for understanding, you find that your ladder of facts isn’t long enough, and you try to extend it by adding a rung of faith. Eventually you see that the task is hopeless, and you put away your ladder of facts and go get a ladder of faith. – Robert Brault, rbrault.blogspot.com

Category:
Faith

No more distressing moment can ever face a British government than that which requires it to come to a hard, fast and specific decision. – Barbara Tuchman

Category:
Government

Class is often invisible in America in the movies, and usually not the subject of the film. – Roger Ebert

Category:
movies

Poetry! poetry! the emptiest of all words, or the most significant,—the most frivolous of all things, or the most important. – Alexandre Vinet (1797–1847)

Category:
Poetry