Quotes About Heart

And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything? And have you finally figured out what beauty is for? And have you changed your life?

Wild sings the bird of the heart in the forests of our lives.

More room in your heart for love, for the trees! For the birds who own nothing—the reason they can fly.

Now and again there's a moment, when the heart cries aloud: yes, I am willing to be that wild darkness, that long, blue body of light.

The Gift Be still, my soul, and steadfast. Earth and heaven both are still watching though time is draining from the clock and your walk, that was confident and quick, has become slow. So, be slow if you must, but let the heart still play its true part. love still as once you loved, deeply and without patience. Let God and the world know you are grateful. That the gift has been given.

The subjects that stir the heart are not so many, after all, and they do not change.

Sleep comes its little while. Then I wake in the valley of midnight or three a.m. to the first fragrances of spring which is coming, all by itself, no matter what. My heart says, what you thought you have you do not have. My body says, will this pounding ever stop? My heart says: there, there, be a good student. My body says: let me up and out, I want to fondle those soft white flowers, open in the night.

Rumi said, There is no proof of the soul. But isn't the return of spring and how it springs up in our hearts a pretty good hint?

the dark heart of the story that is all the reason for its telling?

In every heart there is a coward and a procrastinator./In every heart there is a god of flowers, just waiting/to come out of its cloud and lift its wings.

The beauty and strangeness of the world may fill the eyes with its cordial refreshment. Equally it may offer the heart a dish of terror. On one side is radiance; on another is the abyss.

This is a poem about death, about the heart blanching in its fold of shadows because it knows someday it will be the fish and the wave and no longer itself— it will be those white wings, flying in and out of the darkness but not knowing it— this is a poem about loving the world and everything in it: the self, the perpetual muscle, the passage in and out, the bristling swing of the sea.

if you live simply and with a lyrical heart in the cumbered neighborhoods or even, as Mozart sometimes managed to, in a palace, offering tune after tune after tune, making some hard-hearted prince prudent and kind, just by being happy

Every morning I walk like this around the pond, thinking: if the doors to my heart ever close, I am as good as dead.

It's more than bones. It's more than the delicate wrist with its personal pulse. It's more than the beating of the single heart. It's praising. It's giving until the giving feels like receiving. You have a life - just imagine that! You have this day, and maybe another, and maybe still another.

What is your heart doing now? Remembering. Remembering!

The Instant Today one small snake lay, looped and solitary in the high grass, it swirled to look, didn't like what it saw and was gone in two pulses forward and with no sound at all, only two taps, in disarray, from that other shy one, my heart.

Did I actually reach out my arms toward it, toward paradise falling, like the fading of the dearest, wildest hope- the dark heart of the story that is all the reason for its telling?

I know a lot of fancy words. I tear them from my heart and my tongue. Then I pray.

standing within this otherness—the beauty and the mystery of the world, out in the fields or deep inside books—can re-dignify the worst-stung heart.

At first they were just clouds like any other. Then they swelled and swirled; then they hung very still; then they broke open. This is, I suppose, just one of the common miracles, a transformation, not a vision, not an answer, not a proof, but I put it there, close against my heart, where the need is, and it serves the purpose

and the heart, if it is still alive, feels something— a yearning for which we have no name but which we may remember, years later, in the darkness, from "A Fox in the Dark

So it is if the heart has devoted itself to love, there is not a single inch of emptiness. Gladness gleams all the way to the grave.

Love is the one thing the heart craves and love is the one thing you can't steal.