Quotes About Longing

feel like the bright past is coming through the gray present and I want to look at it one more time.

Maybe it would be better to hold her winglike shadow safe in the lock of his memory than to touch the breathing girl and lose her.

Lucien! - Georgia

Het doet me aan mijn Giuliana denken... Ik ben haar voorgoed kwijt. - Enrico

I only breathe with one lung since you've gone , you say. And I love you with one hemisphere of my brain, the dumb one, the one that forgets.

clawing at my heart all these years.

All I know of love is hunger.

So come to the pond, or the river of your imagination, or the harbor of your longing, and put your lips to the world. And live your life.

It is the nature of stone to be satisfied. It is the nature of water to want to be somewhere else.

because my life without you would be a place of parched and broken trees

Little Crazy Love Song" I don't want eventual, I want soon. It's 5 a.m. It's noon. It's dusk falling to dark. I listen to music. I eat up a few wild poems while time creeps along as though it's got all day. This is what I have. The dull hangover of waiting, the blush of my heart on the damp grass, the flower-faced moon. A gull broods on the shore where a moment ago there were two. Softly my right hand fondles my left hand as though it were you.

It is supposed that a writer writes what he knows about and knows well. It is not necessarily so. A writer's subject may just as well, if not more likely, be what the writer longs for and dreams about, in an unquenchable dream, in lush detail and harsh honesty.

I try to remember when time's measure painfully chafes, for instance when autumn flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing to stay - how everything lives, shifting from one bright vision to another, forever in these momentary pastures.

Listen, whatever it is you try to do with your life, nothing will ever dazzle you like the dreams of your body, its spirit longing to fly while the dead-weight bones toss their dark mane and hurry back into the fields of glittering fire where everything, even the great whale, throbs with song.

Did I actually reach out my arms toward it, toward paradise falling, like the fading of the dearest, wildest hope- the dark heart of the story that is all the reason for its telling?

What I want to say is that the past is the past, and the present is what your life is, and you are capable of choosing what that will be, darling citizen. So come to the pond, or the river of your imagination, or the harbor of your longing, and put your lips to the world. And live your life.

Love is the one thing the heart craves and love is the one thing you can't steal.

and easily she adored every blossom, not in the serious, careful way that we choose this blossom or that blossom— the way we praise or don't praise— the way we love or don't love— but the way we long to be— that happy in the heaven of earth— that wild, that loving.

Like the heron, who can only croak, who wishes he could sing, I wish I could sing.

I saw what love might have done had we loved in time.

and, sometimes, from a lifetime ago and another country such a willing and lilting companion— a song made so obviously for me. At what unknowable cost. And by a stranger.

It's impossible not to remember wild and want it back.

I saw what a child must love, I saw what love might have done had we loved in time.

Has anyone seen meadowlark? I've been looking for probably forty years now unsuccessfully. He used to live in the field I crossed many a morning heading to the woods, truant again from school. There were no meadowlarks in the school. Which was a good enough reason for me not to want to be there. But now it's more serious. There is no field, neither have the woods survived. So, where is meadowlark? If anyone has seen him, please would you let me know posthaste?