Quotes About Yearning

No home anymore. Nowhere to return. My house is a ruin, a cemetery. You may yearn for the grave, but just try living there.

The way a source strains toward the light, toward the air. Its laboring work, its effort, its black passageways like despair. That's the way a poet looks for words. With muscles, gestures.

Oh the hunger in his stare!

My home was in darkness and my companions were shadows beckoning to me from a glass

Like people who from a bridge watch fish swimming below them, we saw the outside world as an alien element where we could take no part. Isolated behind the glass of our lonely window we looked down on the daily life which was not for us.

she had come to him when he was no longer there…because he had not found the young man with the scarred cheek he could not come to her through the glass.

All I wanted then was for everything to go on as before, so that I could stay deeply asleep, and be no more than a hole in space, not here or anywhere at all, for as long as possible, preferably forever.

But he had held her hand, he had looked into her face in the dark hall, and a strange ecstatic entrancement had come over her, as though she would like to stand there forever, just feeling her hand in his. The extraordinary comfort that filled her heart because of that contact with another human being! She knew that she must feel it again, that, like a drug-taker, she would never be satisfied until she had repeated that unique and trance-like sensation.

The years passed like the steps of a staircase leading lower and lower. I did not walk any more in the sun or hear the songs of larks like crystal fountains playing against the sky. No hand enfolded mine in the warm clasp of love. My thoughts were again solitary, disintegrate, disharmonious – the music gone. I lived alone in a few pleasant rooms, feeling my life run out aimlessly with the tedious hours: the life of an old maid ran out of my fingertips.

Men don't even ask me out. I can't remember the last time I was asked out on a date, and I'm talking years here. I spend my life more and more alone.

Oh, Mum,' Rosie said softly. 'I missed you. Every single day. I have missed you so much.

Only do not forget, If I wake up crying it's because in my dreams I'm a lost child hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands. Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets, XXI

That for the rest of her life she'd long to hold that hand one more time, and no matter how many other hands she held, she would never find one as warm and soft.

You do not feel like dancing and there are no daffodils, only walls, your bedroom door, and the quiet of the house, tucked asleep in the night's thick cover. You wait for dawn. You wait for your dreams. You wait in the night, and you hunger.

I want to eat the melancholy I can feel inside my ribs, beside my heart. I want to eat the sad...

No,* he said gently when her words finally stopped, *they don't want you. They don't love you, can't love you. But I do love you. The Priest loves you. The beautiful ones, the gentle ones—they love you. We've waited so long for you to come. We need you with us. We need you to walk among us.*

Was she cold? If he'd stayed with her last night, she wouldn't be cold.

He slid into bed, turned off the light…and groaned as an image of a wise, skinny old crone filled his mind. No, he begged the still night. Sweet Darkness, heed the prayer of one of your sons. Now that she's so close, let her be young enough to want me. Let her be young enough to need me. The night gave him no answer, and the sky was a predawn gray before he finally slept." - Daemon

Arroo!" I am here. "Arroo!" I am here. I am here. I am here. Alone.

My love is such that rivers cannot quench

What business had I to think of one that never thought of me?

You are the trip I did not take, you are the pearls I could not buy, you are my blue Italian lake, you are my piece of foreign sky. You are my Honolulu moon, you are the book I did not write, you are my heart's unuttered tune, you are a candle in my night. You are the flower beneath the snow, in my dark sky a bit of blue, answering disappointment's blow with "I am happy! I have you!

You are the trip I did not take; You are the pearls I cannot buy; You are my blue Italian lake; You are my piece of foreign sky.

As lover you reach forward to a point in time called "then" when you will bite into the long-desired apple. Meanwhile you are aware that as soon as "then" supervenes upon "now," the bittersweet moment, which is your desire, will be gone. You cannot want that, and yet you do.