Quotes About Longing

realized that I had come to my own terms with the desert, but my soul was thirsty.

Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling. From glen to glen, and down the mountainside. The summer's gone, and all the roses falling. It's you, it's you must go, and I must bide.

This parting cannot be for long; for those who love as we do cannot be parted. We shall always be united in thought, and thought is a great magnet. I have often spoken to thee of reason, now I speak to thee of faith.

E' uno strano dolore. Morire di nostalgia per qualcosa che non vivrai mai.

?udna je to bol.Umirati od žudnje za ne?im što nikada ne?eš doživjeti

She was sitting at a table in a cafe and he had just left. What she has understood, with absolute certainty, was that to live without him would be, forever, her fundamental occupation and that from that moment on things would always have a shadow for her, an extra shadow, even in the dark, and maybe especially in the dark. She wondered if that might work as an explanation of what it means to be mad about someone.

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light; I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

There was a time when I didn't seem to need such things, when I would have been amused and perhaps even vaguely disgusted at the notion of living like some sort of psychic vampire, a lingering revenant pressed up against one-way glass, looking with forlorn and futile eyes at the ordinary life fate had denied him.

It was always a sad pleasure, like making love to a beautiful woman, but not to the woman you love.

He smiled. "What's going on?" "Why does something have to be going on? Maybe I just missed you." He gave me an uncharacteristically streetwise look. I had a feeling I knew where he'd picked it up. "Yeah, I missed you, too." I wasn't looking forward to the turn the conversation would take when I brought up Yukiko, and felt no hurry to get there. A waitress came by. Harry ordered a coffee and some carrot cake.

The room was large, and largely empty. The pace would pick up later in the evening. For now, the action comprised just a few lonely souls. They seemed lost in the expanse of the room, their play joyless, desultory, as though they'd been looking for a livelier party and found themselves stuck with this one instead.

I might have asked for her number. I could have told her my visit had been extended, something like that. She was too young, but I liked the way she made me feel. She provoked a confusing mix of emotions: affinity based on the shared experiences of mixed blood and childhood bereavement; a paternalistic urge to protect her from the mistakes she was going to make; a sad sexual longing that was like an elegy for Midori.

Why are the most painful memories also the sweetest; why does the sweetness always draw us back no matter how long the pain might have kept us away beforehand? I don't know

Why are the most painful memories also the sweetest; why does the sweetness always draw us back no matter how long the pain might have kept us away beforehand?

I have a great longing for trousers, and if I ask you in time maybe you can put in a little sequence with the trousers? Maybe her dressed as soldier, going to Napoleon's tent at night or something. I'm sorry not to contribute anything more but it is merely to remind you about the trousers. Trousers - girls in trousers. Pressed trousers. Girls. Trousers, trousers.

Afterward I remembered these things very clearly, with that longing we feel sometimes to recover a state of life that we have lost for ever, though it is perhaps that we have lost it is all its value.

For me enough means not enough

Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?

How I long to see among dawn flowers, the face of God.

Even in Kyoto/Hearing the cuckoo's cry/I long for Kyoto

Oh! Moeten wij eeuwig lijden of altijd vluchten voor wat mooi is?

Homesickness is a real sickness—the ache of the uprooted plant.

Love me. My head is so bad tonight. Love me. Love me.

I love you, Beverly . . . just let me have that. You can have Bill, or the world, or whatever you need. Just let me have that, let me go on loving you, and I guess it'll be enough.