Quotes About Heart

And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp! When the stars threw down their spears And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see?

For Mercy has a human heart; Pity, a human face; And Love, the human form divine: And Peace the human dress.

Tyger, tyger, burning bright In the forest of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could Frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And, when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? - The Tyger

People think all the answers are in here – with the brain. Reason, intelligence, deduction. They think thinking will solve all problems.' He put his hand over his heart. 'But no – the answers are here. Your heart will tell you what is right or wrong. Your best guide through life

When he quoted Voltaire's dictum that 'the history of the human mind is the history of stupidity', he meant it from the bottom of his heart.

The greatest sin is what brings about the heart's death. It dies only by not knowing God. This is what is named "ignorance.

My heart rouses thinking to bring you news of something that concerns you and concerns many men. Look at what passes for the new. You will not find it there but in despised poems. It is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.

Black wind, I have poured my heart out to you until I am sick of it- Now I run my hand over you feeling the play of your body - the quiver of it's strength-

Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey, and? In the tall, dried grasses a goat stirs with nozzle searching the ground. ?my head is in the air but who am I . . ? And amazed my heart leaps at the thought of love vast and grey yearning silently over me.

If there's delight in love, 'Tis when I see that heart, which others bleed for, bleed for me.

If he was not commonplace, it was through nothing remarkable in his mind, which was simply clear and practical, but through some combination of qualities of the heart that made men trust him, and women call him sweet--a word of theirs which conveys otherwise indefinable excellences.

The only thing worth writing about is the human heart in conflict with itself

It is the writer's privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart.

Truth is one. It doesn't change. It covers all things which touch the heart - honor and pride and pity and justice and courage and love.

But peace is my heart: I know it is.

I am not religious, I reckon. But peace is in my heart: I know it is.

Then alone, of all church gatherings, is there something of that peace which is the promise and the end of the Church. The mind and the heart purged then, if it is ever to be; the week and its whatever disasters finished and summed and expiated by the stern and formal fury of the morning service; the next week and its whatever disasters not yet born, the heart quiet now for a little while beneath the cool soft blowing of faith and hope.

the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.

The work of the artist is to lift up people's hearts and help them endure.

I am not religious, I reckon. But peace is in my heart: I know it is. I have done things but neither better nor worse than them that pretend otherlike, and I know that Old Marster will care for me as for ere a sparrow that falls.

Riches is nothing in the face of the Lord, for He can see into the heart.

He went on down the hill toward the dark woods within which the liquid silver voices of the birds called unceasing- the rapid and urgent beating o the urgent and quiring heart of the late spring night. He did not look back.

This isn't from me, but from Faulkner, and may be the best advice I've seen for any writer. (Write of) the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed – love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice.

Yes. Because they were human men. They were trying to write down the heart's truth out of the heart's driving complexity, for all the complex and troubled hearts which would beat after them.