Edwin Muir (15 May 1887 – 3 January 1959) was a Scottish poet, novelist and translator, born in Deerness, on the Orkney Islands.
- The curse of Scottish literature is the lack of a whole language, which finally means the lack of a whole mind.
- Scott and Scotland (1936), Introduction.
- There is a road that turning always
Cuts off the country of Again.
Archers stand there on every side
And as it runs time's deer is slain
And lies where it has lain.
- The world's great day is growing late,
Yet strange these fields that we have planted
So long with crops of love and hate.
- Long time he lay upon the sunny hill,
To his father's house below securely bound.
- They do not live in the world,
Are not in time and space.
From birth to death hurled
No word do they have, not one
To plant a foot upon,
Were never in any place.
- I have observed in foolish awe
The dateless mid-days of the law
And seen indifferent justice done
By everyone on everyone.