Quotes About Dreams

WESSON: Volare giù dalle cascate e non morire... nessuno lo dice, ma qui è il sogno di tutti. SMITH: Ma da quando? WESSON: Da sempre. Noi campiamo delle cascate, ma loro fanno quel che vogliono. L'unico modo sarebbe quello di entrarci dentro e uscirne vivi. E' da sempre che ci aspettiamo che qualcuno lo faccia. SMITH: Sono cinquanta metri che finiscono nell'inferno, Wesson! WESSON: Sì, ma una strada c'è. Me l'ha insegnata mio padre.

Sterven van heimwee naar iets dat je nooit zult beleven.

Uno tiene sus sueños, cosas suyas, íntimas, y después la vida no quiere seguir jugando contigo, y te lo desmonta, un instante, una frase, y todo se desvanece. Suele ocurrir. Por esta razón y no por otra vivir es una tarea dolorosa.

Every girl pretends she is a princess at one point, no matter how little her life is like that.

I'm a girl. Every girl pretends she's a princess at one point, no matter how little her life is like that. And I like the idea of 'happily ever after.

I remembered a few things about waking. I remembered the sense of surprise as dream life and waking life swapped primacy, and the way in which the most tangible and deeply involving dreams could bleach entirely away.

I'm fine. I have bad dreams but I never saw Mister Duck again. I play video games. I got my thousand-yard stare. I carry a lot of scars. I like the way that sounds. I carry a lot of scars.

Always follow your dreams, don't let anyone tell you that you can't be something.

When talking about speculations, a man dreams, and money decides.

I told him that if a man is born in a dry place, then although he may dream of rain, he does not want too much, and that he will not mind the sun that beats down and down.

The young rarely believe that they will not be able to get what they want, because there is always an open future.

I was staying in a house beside the machair. In front of this house was a stretch of lawn, and at the edge of the lawn there was a river. By the riverside, its door wide open, was a shed into which I wandered. Inside the shed was a large art nouveau typesetting machine. I was being called, and I turned away from my discovery of the typesetting machine to make my way back to the house and to our hostess. People in dreams do not always have names, but she did. She was called Mrs. MacGregor.

We are all sent the dreams we yearn for, she thought; no matter how unhappy or fraught our waking world may be, we are sent dreams in which we can do the things the heart really wants us to do.

I rode to meet you: dreams like living beings swarmed around me and the moon on my right side followed me, burning. I rode back: everything changed. My soul in love was sad and the moon on my left side trailed me without hope. To such endless impressions we poets give ourselves absolutely, making, in silence, omen of mere event, until the world reflects the deepest needs of the soul.

I was born for the peaceful life, for rural quiet: the lyre's voice in the wild is more resounding, creative dreams are more alive. To harmless leisures consecrated, I wander by a wasteful lake and far niente is my rule. By every morn I am awakened unto sweet mollitude and freedom; little I read, a lot I sleep, fugitive fame do not pursue. Was it not thus in former years, that I spent in inaction, in the shade, my happiest days?

what is renoun?more false than hope by dreams engendered.

When I want somebody to read to, To match a dream with tuneful phrase, It is my nurse that I pay heed to, Companion of my youthful days, Or, following a boring dinner, A neihbour comes in, who I corner, Catch at his coat tails suddenly And choke him with a tragedy, Or, (here I am no longer jesting), Haunted by rhymes and yearning's ache, I roam beside my country lake And scare a flock of wild ducks resting: Hearing my strophes' sweet-toned chants, They fly off from the banks at once.

It's now the British Muse's fables That lie on maidens' bedside tables And haunt their dreams. They worship now The Vampire with his pensive brow

She craves romance. She dreams that she is the heroine of every book she reads.

Cantó el amor, y el canto suyo era tan límpido y puro como el pensar de una doncella, como los sueños de un niño, como la luna en los cielos, nocturna diosa indolente de los misterios y suspiros. Cantó el dolor y el olvido, cantó las rosas y las brumas, cantó lejanas tierras donde sus lágrimas se derramaban en la soledad; cantó asimismo marchitas flores de la vida teniendo apenas dieciocho.

Thou and You and A Love Letter She substituted, by a chance, For empty 'you' – the gentle 'thou'; And all my happy dreams, at once, In loving heart again resound. In bliss and silence do I stay, Unable to maintain my role: 'Oh, how sweet you are!' I say – 'How I love thee!' says my soul.

So rapid is the flight of dreams upon the wings of imagination.

The same thing is happening to me as happens to people in dreams when they see and feel a wound but can't remember having received it.

Sleep is a very capricious goddess, and it is precisely when she is invoked that she delays coming. - Page 184