George Borrow Poems
- Ode To A Mountain How lovely art thou in thy tresses of ...
- The Deceived Merman (From The ...
- Aager And Eliza (From The Old ... Have ye heard of bold ...
- National Song King Christian stood beside the mast; Smoke, ...
- The Hail-Storm (From The Norse... When from our ships we ...
- Glee Roseate colours on heaven’s high arch Are beginning to ...
- From Allan Cunningham Sing, sing, my friend; breathe life ...
George Henry Borrow (5 July 1803 – 26 July 1881) was an English author who wrote novels and travelogues based on his own experiences around Europe. Over the course of his wanderings, he developed a close affinity with the Romani people of Europe. They figure prominently in his work. His best known book is The Bible in Spain; Lavengro is autobiographical, and Romany Rye is about his time with the ... more »
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Quotationsmore quotations »
I have always been a friend to hero-worship; it is the only rational one, and has always been in use amongst civilized peoplethe worship of spirits is synonymous with barbarismit is mere f...George Borrow (1803-1881), British author. An elderly individual, in Lavengro, ch. 23 (1851).
''If you must commit suicide ... always contrive to do it as decorously as possible; the decencies, whether of life or of death, should never be lost sight of.''George Borrow (1803-1881), British author. An "elderly individual," in Lavengro, ch. 23 (1851).
''There's night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?''George Borrow (1803-1881), British author. Jasper, in Lavengro, ch. 25 (1851).
''I am invariably of the politics of the people at whose table I sit, or beneath whose roof I sleep.''George Borrow (1803-1881), British author. The Bible in Spain, ch. 16 (1843).
Comments about George Borrow
Ode To A Mountain
How lovely art thou in thy tresses of foam,
And yet the warm blood in my bosom grows chill,
When yelling thou rollest thee down from thy home,
’Mid the boom of the echoing forest and hill.
The pine-trees are shaken—they yield to thy shocks,
And spread their vast ruin wide over the ground,
The rocks fly before thee—thou seizest the rocks,
And whirl’st them like pebbles contemptuously round.
The sun-beams have cloth’d thee in glorious dyes,
They streak with the tints of the heavenly bow
Those hovering columns of vapour that rise
Forth from the bubbling ...