Arthur Symons Quotes - Page 2

Sweet, can I sing you the song of your kisses? How soft is this one, how subtle this is, How fluttering swift as a bird's kiss that is, As a bird that taps at a leafy lattice; How this one clings and how that uncloses From bud to flower in the way of roses.

My life is like a music-hall,Where, in the impotence of rage,Chained by enchantment to my stall,I see myself upon the stageDance to amuse a music-hall.

Leave words to them whom words, not doings, move.

The desert of virginity Aches in the hotness of her mouth.

My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.

What we ask of him is, that he should find out for us more than we can find out for ourselves... He must have the passion of a lover.

I have laid sorrow to sleep;Love sleeps.She who oft made me weepNow weeps.

The wind is rising on the sea,The windy white foam-dancers leap;And the sea moans uneasily,And turns to sleep, and cannot sleep.

I heard the sighing of the reedsAt noontide and at evening,And some old dream I had forgottenI seemed to be remembering.

The gray-green stretch of sandy grass,Indefinitely desolate;A sea of lead, a sky of slate;Already autumn in the air, alas!One stark monotony of stone,The long hotel, acutely white,Against the after-sunset lightWithers gray-green, and takes the grass's tone.

The mystic too full of God to speak intelligibly to the world.

There are certain natures to whom work is nothing, the act of work everything.

Night, a more perfect day.

A place has almost the shyness of a person, with strangers; and its secret is not to be surprised by a too direct interrogation.