Quotes About Emotion

It is absurd to think that the only way to tell if a poem is lasting is to wait and see if it lasts. The right reader of a good poem can tell the moment it strikes him that he has taken an immortal wound—that he will never get over it.

Love is an irresistable desire to be irresistably desired.

There are tones of voices that mean more than words.

No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.

Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length.

To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.

Anger blows out the lamp of the mind.

Anger is a wind which blows out the lamp of the mind.

Music expresses feeling and thought, without language; it was below and before speech, and it is above and beyond all words.

Every flower that gives its fragrance to the wandering air leaves its influence on the soul of man. The wheel and swoop of the winged creatures of the air suggest the flowing lines of subtle art. The roar and murmur of the restless sea, the cataract's solemn chant, the thunder's voice, the happy babble of the brook, the whispering leaves, the thrilling notes of mating birds, the sighing winds, taught man to pour his heart in song and gave a voice to grief and hope, to love and death.

You are not writing properly unless someone is bleeding, probably you.

Men looked so tragic when they cried.

As always, he found her better-looking in the flesh than in the memory he had of her when not present.

The feel of her was both new and familiar, as though he had held her a long time ago, as though he had missed it without knowing it for years.

difficile est longum subito deponere amoren, difficile est, uerum hoc qua lubet efficias… …it is hard to throw off long-established love: Hard, but this you must manage somehow…

As suddenly as they had reached for each other, they broke apart. Tears were rolling down Robin's face. For one moment of madness, Strike yearned to say, "Come with me", but there are words that can never be unsaid or forgotten, and those, he knew, were some of them.

she'd seen a flicker of something in his face that wasn't mere friendship, and they'd hugged, and she'd felt . . . Best not to dwell on that hug, on how like home it had felt, on how a kind of insanity had gripped her at that moment, and she'd imagined him saying 'come with me' and known she'd have gone if he had.

She thought it might be the very first time that Strike had ever given any indication that he saw her as a woman, and she silently filed away the exchange to pore over later, in solitude.

A vast unfocused rage rose in her, against men who considered displays of emotion a delicious open door; men who ogled your breasts under the pretense of scanning the wine shelves; men for whom your mere physical presence constituted a lubricious invitation. Her

I love you don't forget me whatever hpapens to me. I love you.

It is hard to abruptly shrug off a long-established love Hard, but this, somehow, you must do.

A pause. Sense entered into a short, violent skirmish with instinct and inclination, and was overwhelmed.