Quotes About Longing

You lie upon my heart as on a nest, Folded in peace, for you can never know How crushed I am with having you at rest Heavy upon my life. I love you so You bind my freedom from its rightful quest. In mercy lift your drooping wings and go.

Vernal Equinox The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist, lies between me and my book; And the South Wind, washing through the room, Makes the candles quiver. My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the shutter, And I am uneasy with the thrusting of green shoots Outside, in the night. Why are you not here to overpower me with your tense and urgent love?

My eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears. You are my home, do you not understand?

The Taxi When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum. I call out for you against the jutted stars And shout into the ridges of the wind. Streets coming fast, One after the other, Wedge you away from me, And the lamps of the city prick my eyes So that I can no longer see your face. Why should I leave you, To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?

Carrefour" O You, Who came upon me once Stretched under apple-trees just after bathing, Why did you not strangle me before speaking Rather than fill me with the wild white honey of your words And then leave me to the mercy Of the forest bees. Originally published in Coterie: A Quarterly: Art, Prose, and Poetry No. 4. Edited by Lall Chaman (1920)

Aubade" As I would free the white almond from the green husk So I would strip your trappings off, Beloved. And fingering the smooth and polished kernel I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting. Decade When you came, you were like red wine and honey, And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness. Now you are like morning bread, Smooth and pleasant. I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour, But I am completely nourished.

The Wheel of the Sun" I beg you Hide your face from me. Draw the tissue of your head-gear Over your eyes. For I am blinded by your beauty, And my heart is strained, And aches, Before you. In the street, You spread a brightness where you walk, And I see your lifting silks And rejoice; But I cannot look up to your face. You melt my strength, And set my knees to trembling. Shadow yourself that I may love you, For now it is too great a pain.

A Lover" If I could catch the green lantern of the firefly I could see to write you a letter. Poetry: A Magazine of Verse 1912–22. Edited by Harriet Monroe. (Chicago: 1912–22; New York: Bartleby.com, 2011)

I have always wanted a bunny and I'll always have a rabbit the rest of my life.

the thing about Steven is, everyone wants him to fill the hole we have in our lives.

She wanted to be his more than she wanted him to be faithful.

Her desire for him had been so great that she had been willing to accept a kind of lumpy half-love, flawed, temporal, and incomplete.

I was gutted to leave my boyfriend at home when I started my tour, but taking my pillow was like taking a little bit of him with me.

He wants to see the child, because that child will bring about the consolation that he seeks; he may not want to see the child, because once he has that encounter, he will die.

Catch me, as if I have surely been out committing a violation against you, my sin of insisting on existing without you.

No, it's too much. I should never have let you know that I was here. After all, there was no reason to tell you. It was just that we landed and I was sucked up by the tentacles of this, your city, and your name and that summer that were all inseparable and I called as soon as I put my bag down on the bed in this room.

Se me partía el corazón, así que en un descuido de Tata María abrí la ventana y temblando de frío, o quien sabe de qué, grité: —¡Espérame, Gavrila, espérame…! Y me esperó tanto que todavía está ahí, con su mano levantada, saludándome. En ese tiempo, en ese lugar indefinible donde se guarda lo más profundo y, quizá, lo más inexplicable de la memoria.

Ya no temblaba. No sentía. Todo huía de mí, como los pájaros de Andersen, hacia las Tierras Calientes. No podía llorar, y me tendí suavemente en el suelo mientras oía, o creía oír, el despacioso vaivén de la puerta del pasillo, perdiendo fuerza. Y un campanilleo medio sofocado por el silencio, el silencio que iba repitiendo una voz sin sonido: «Ven, ven, ven…». Fue la primera vez que me morí.

Quizá la nostalgia sea un deseo; o el resplandor de un tiempo en el que creíamos ser felices.

Sólo se sabía prisionero de aquel íntimo deseo, de aquel sueño, de aquella fiebre de la que nadie hacía partícipe. Pues esta sed era mayor que todas las sedes, y esta hambre, mayor que hambre alguna.

Ah, cruel 'tis to love, And cruel not to love, But cruelest of all To love and love in vain.

Boy with a maiden's glance, I seek you out, but you hear not, Unknowing that you are the charioteer Of my soul.

I'm filled with desire—to live, to write, to do everything. Desire itself is a kind of immortality.

The moment a book is lent I begin to miss it.