Quotes About Heart

What does the brain matter compared with the heart?

Peter would think her sentimental. So she was. For she had come to feel that it was the only thing worth saying – what one felt. Cleverness was silly. One must say simply what one felt.

Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall

Fear no more, says the heart...

Her heart was made of liquid sunsets.

I went from one to the other holding my sorrow - no, not my sorrow but the incomprehensible nature of this our life - for their inspection. Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends, I to my own heart, I to seek among phrases and fragments something unbroken - I to whom there is no beauty enough in moon or tree; to whom the touch of one person with another is all, yet who cannot grasp even that, who am so imperfect, so weak, so unspeakably lonely.

There was an emptiness about the heart of life; an attic room.

So on a summer's day waves collect, overbalance, and fall; collect and fall; and the whole world seems to be saying 'that is all' more and more ponderously, until even the heart in the body which lies in the sun on the beach says too 'that is all'. Fear no more, says the heart. Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall.

Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.

My heart currently resembles the ashes of my cigarettes.

Some people go to priests; others to poetry...I to my own heart, I to seek among phrases and fragments something unbroken.

She did in her own heart infinitely prefer boobies to clever men who wrote dissertations.

I to my friends, to my own heart, I to seek among phrases and fragments something unbroken.

It was the time between the lights when colours undergo their intensification and purples and golds burn in window-panes like the beat of an excitable heart; when for some reason the beauty of the world revealed and yet soon to perish (here I pushed into the garden, for, unwisely, the door was left open and no beadles seemed about), the beauty of the world which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.

It flattered her, where she was most susceptible of flattery, to think how, wound about in their hearts, however long they lived she would be woven...

Chi mai potrà misurare il fervore e la violenza del cuore di un poeta quando rimane preso e intrappolato in un corpo di donna?

Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long years—" he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure—" Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.

For centuries the writing-desk has contained sheets fit precisely for the communication of friends. Masters of language, poets of long ages, have turned from the sheet that endures to the sheet that perishes, pushing aside the tea-tray, drawing close to the fire (for letters are written when the dark presses around a bright red cave), and addressed themselves the task of reaching, touching, penetrating the individual heart.

There was an emptiness about the heart of life; an attic room. Women must put off their rich apparel. At midday they must disrobe.

One must own that there are certain books which can be read without the mind and without the heart, but still with considerable enjoyment.

It was a very very nice letter you wrote by the light of the stars at midnight. Always write then, for your heart requires moonlight to deliquesce it. And mine is fried in gaslight, as it is only nine o'clock and I must go to bed at eleven.

Here we slept, she says. And he adds, Kisses without number. Waking in the morning - Silver between the trees - Upstairs - In the garden - When summer came - In winter snowtime - The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.

Here, she felt, putting the spoon down, was the still space that lies about the heart of things, where one could move or rest...

The beauty of the world has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.