Quotes About Longing

The kiss. In the long hours on the catwalk, standing Mercy for Theo. Peter's mind had returned to it again and again, to the puzzle of its meaning, the kind of kiss it was. ....and it wasn't until he'd come into the Infirmary and seen her lying there that he understood what it was: a promise. A promise as clear as words from a girl who hadn't any. A kiss that said: I'll find you.

Life wrests that feeling from us. Day by day, the sublime glimpses of childhood pass away. It is love, of course, and only love, that restores us to ourselves, or so we hope, but that is taken away. What is left when there is no love?

All his life he had wanted to be known by just one person. That's what love was, he decided. Love was being known.

For the first time in my life, I felt the pain of missing people I had not yet left.

A thousand recollected lives were passing through her, a thousand stories - of love and work, of parents and children, of duty and joy and grief. Beds slept in and meals eaten, and the bliss and pain of the body, and a view of summer leaves from a window on a morning it had rained; the nights of loneliness and the nights of love, the soul in it's body keeping always longing to be known.

That was always the hardest part, missing you.

My last words to him were to assure him that we would bring Sally to join him later. And you know what your dad said? He said that he would wait for as long as it took." Grace bit her lip. "But she never came, did she? And he never stopped waiting.

George was an atheist, and so am I. But how I long now for an afterlife - a world of light or of deep dazzling darkness, where he and the others we've lost reside, unscathed, forever accessible - to have tea with, to talk nonsense with, to reinvent the world with

Jacob didn't exactly smile, but his last look at me from inside the cab was nothing short of smoldering. My lips tingled in response, as if it was his soft mouth, not his eyes, that had just raked me. The cab pulled away from the curb. Mom sighed. I would have sighed, too, except I didn't want to be one of those pathetic girls who pined for their boyfriends . . . even though I was pining. And worrying.

Her eyelids fluttered. "Francis," she murmured. "Cathy," he murmured back. "Heathcliff," muttered Kit, as he set about making sandwiches.

And yes, I confess, when I looked at him, I thought of Heathcliff and Mr Rochester and Maxim de Winter... and how could I not, when I had been waiting for them to step out of the pages of the books I loved; when I knew them so well, read them inside out and into myself?

Ardeat ipsa licet, tormentia gaudet amantis. (Though she may herself burn, she delights in her lover's torment.)

Somewhere there are gardens where peacocks sing like nightingales, somewhere there are caravans of separated lovers traveling to meet each other; there are ruby fires on distant mountains, and blue comets that come in spring like sapphires in the black sky. If this is not so, meet me in the shameful yard, and we will plant a gallows tree, and swing like sad pendulums, never once touching.

My soul longs for God, but a man is not just his soul, is he? Terrible to say, my clay lusts after the clay of nubile girl. To soothe my guilt, and please forgive my indelicacy, I have convinced myself that I seek to find God again in their arms and their unmentionable places.

Life was like that. Everyone loved the wrong person who loved someone else or didn't love at all.

The idea that he and Scott could get away together, maybe hang out for the hour before he has to rush back to get picked up by his mother in front of the school—when he thinks of that, he feels almost hungry. He's aware of his own brain working in ways it never used to: a switch has been flicked and he is now a stranger to himself—a stranger he has not yet decided he wants to be.

Ah, my wishes become hopes.

akuntala must go to-day; I miss her now at heart; I dare not speak a loving word Or choking tears will start. My eyes are dim with anxious thought; Love strikes me to the life: And yet I strove for pious peace— I have no child, no wife.

akuntala must go to-day; I miss her now at heart; I dare not speak a loving word Or choking tears will start. My eyes are dim with anxious thought; Love strikes me to the life: And yet I strove for pious peace— I have no child, no wife. What must a father feel, when come The pangs of parting from his child at home?

The tears would choke you, sweet, in vain; My soul with victory is fed, Because I see your face again— No jewels, but the lips are red.

I cannot taste the sweet, and cannot leave it.

A sore pain troubles me day and night, and I cannot sleep; I long for the meeting with my Beloved, and my father's house gives me pleasure no more. The gates of the sky are opened, the temple is revealed: I meet my husband, and leave at His feet the offering of my body and my mind.

So high is my Lord's palace, my heart trembles to mount its stairs: yet I must not be shy, if I would enjoy His love.

Friend, hope for the Guest while you are alive. Jump into experience while you are alive! Think . . . and think . . . while you are alive. What you call "salvation" belongs to the time before death . . . . Kabir says this: When the Guest is being searched for, it is the intensity of the longing for the guest that does all the work . . .