Quotes About Heart

People do it, some out of desperation, others out of greed. They steal. The very powerful and clever might steal a whole house, or a million dollars. It's been done. But what does it matter? Love is the one thing the heart craves and love is the one thing you can't steal.

Wherever I've lived my room and soon the entire house is filled with books; poems, stories, histories, prayers of all kinds stand up gracefully or are heaped on shelves, on the floor, on the bed. Strangers old and new offering their words bountifully and thoughtfully, lifting my heart. But, wait! I've made a mistake! how could these makers of so many books that have given so much to my life—how could they possibly be strangers?

Things! Burn them, burn them! Make a beautiful fire! More room in your heart for love, for the trees! For the birds who own nothing—the reason they can fly. FOR TOM SHAW S.S.J.E.

Burn them, burn them! Make a beautiful fire! More room in your heart for love, for the trees! For the birds who own nothing—the reason they can fly.

But living like this is for me the difference between a luminous life and a ho-hum life. So be it! With my whole heart, I live as I live. My affinity is to the whimsical, the illustrative, the suggestive—not to the factual or the useful. I walk, and I notice. I am sensual in order to be spiritual.

Everyone knows the great energies running amok cast terrible shadows, that each of the so-called senseless acts has its thread looping back through the world and into a human heart.

if the doors of my heart ever close, I am as good as dead. Every morning, so far, I'm alive.

I know death is the fascinating snake under the leaves, sliding and sliding; I know the heart loves him too, can't turn away, can't break the spell. Everything wants to enter the slow thickness, aches to be peaceful finally and at any cost. Wants to be stone.

My heart dresses in black and dances.

We're tenting tonight               on the old camp ground;        Give us a song to cheer        Our weary hearts,               a song of home,        And friends we love so dear.

Perhaps some things should remain mysteries and are better kept in our hearts. We should not try to explain them.

As Jack hurried up to his room, some words from the Civil War song ran through his mind:        Give us a song to cheer           Our weary hearts, a song of home Ã¢â'¬Â¦

Perhaps some things should remain mysteries and are better kept in our hearts. We should not try to explain them. (p. 86)

We must do what we do to satisfy our own hearts... (p. 87)

To Huang Ti's credit, though, he managed, without ever disassembling a corpse, to figure out that "the blood of the body is under the control of the heart" and that "the blood current flows in a continuous circle and never stops." In other words, the man figured out what William Harvey figured out, four thousand years before Harvey and without laying open any family members.

The body's response to this wild, Valsalvic seesawing of the vital signs can throw off the electrical rhythm of the heart. The resulting arrhythmia can be fatal. This is especially likely to happen in someone, like Elvis, with a compromised heart. Fatal arrhythmia is the cause of death listed on Presley's autopsy report.

Anguish and despair had penetrated into the core of my heart; I bore a hell within me, which nothing could extinguish.

If pain can purify the heart, mine will be pure.

Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even in these rugged bosoms.

These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm whcih elevates me to heaven, for nothing contributes so much to tranqualize the mind as a steady purpose - a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye.

misery had her dwelling in my heart...

His wild and enthusiastic imagination was chastened by the sensibility of his heart. His soul overflowed with ardent affections, and his friendship was of that devoted and wondrous nature that the worldly-minded teach us to look for only in the imagination.

The blood flowed freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my heart, which nothing could remove.

Nothing is so precious to a woman's heart as the glory and excellence of him she loves