Quotes About Desire

I hate the day, because it lendeth lightTo see all things, and not my love to see.

Ah! when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love? - Epithalamion

I hate the day, because it lendeth light To see all things, but not my love to see.

It is the mynd, that maketh good or ill, That maketh wretch or happie, rich or poore: For some, that hath abundance at his will, Hath not enough, but wants in greatest store; And other, that hath litle, askes no more, But in that litle is both rich and wise. For wisedome is most riches; fooles therefore They are, which fortunes doe by vowes deuize, Sith each vnto himselfe his life may fortunize.

One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washèd it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.

If a writer has the desire to communicate by writing and be heard, then he necessarily cares about seeing it in print. I suppose it's the difference between masturbation and making love—the real writer wants to touch another person.

The wars fought by human beings are stimulated as a rule primarily by the same instincts as the voracity of a sea slug.

Men give love because they want sex. Women give sex because they want love. That's the difference between men and women. Ever notice how when we talk about our love lives, it's always about a man? Singular. All most of us want is one good man. But when men talk, it's about women. Plural. They want as many as they can get.

Sex gets people killed, put in jail, beaten up, bankrupted, and disgraced, to say nothing of ruined -- personally, politically, and professionally. Looking for sex can lead to misfortune, and if you get lucky and find it, it can leave you maimed, infected, or dead. Other than that, it's swell: the great American pastime.

She said the reason that love is so painful is that it always amounts to two people wanting more than two people can give.

I was lonelier than I should be, for a woman in love, or half in love.

Oh, love, what an unreasoning creature it grew to be.

After that dark woman you search for someone who will fit into the irregular corners of your heart.

I would I were alive again to kiss the fingers of the rain.

Life is a quest and love a quarrel

I drank at every vine. The last was like the first. I came upon no wine So wonderful as thirst.

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drinkNor slumber nor a roof against the rain;Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink.

SHE is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine. She has more hair than she needs; In the sun 'tis a woe to me! And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea. She loves me all that she can, And her ways to my ways resign; But she was not made for any man, And she never will be all mine.

I do not think there is a woman in whom the roots of passion shoot deeper than in me.

The undercurrent of my every thought: To seek you, find you, have you for my own.

For my omniscience paid I toll In infinite remorse of soul. All sin was of my sinning, all Atoning mine, and mine the gall Of all regret. Mine was the weight Of every brooded wrong, the hate That stood behind each envious thrust, Mine every greed, mine every lust. And all the while for every grief, Each suffering, I craved relief With individual desire, – Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fire About a thousand people crawl; Perished with each, — then mourned for all!

I felt his gaze, I heard his moan, And knew his hunger as my own.

Feast" I drank at every vine. The last was like the first. I came upon no wine So wonderful as thirst. I gnawed at every root. I ate of every plant. I came upon no fruit So wonderful as want. Feed the grape and bean To the vintner and monger: I will lie down lean With my thirst and my hunger.

PIERROT: Of course not. There never was. "Moon's" just a word to swear by. "Mutton!"—now there's a thing you can lay the hands on, And set the tooth in! Listen, Columbine: I always lied about the moon and you. Food is my only lust. COLUMBINE: Well, eat it, then, For Heaven's sake, and stop your silly noise! I haven't heard the clock tick for an hour.