Quotes About Longing

The more you dream of one particular and pleasing thing, Ralata, the quicker it palls. The edges get worn down, the lustre fades. To leave such obsessions behind, dream of them often.

Anarchists live in fear and long for death, because they despair of seeing in others the very virtues they lack in themselves. In this manner, they take pleasure in sowing destruction, if only to match their inner landscape of ruin.

A small whimper escaped her throat, then she desperately pulled her eyes away.

A soul made weary longed for sordid ends. But a soul at its end longed for all that was past, and so remained trapped in a present filled with regrets.

Nor would he recognize hope if it came to him. Too much a stranger, too long a ghost.

Boatfinder, tell me, from the frozen time into the flowing time, is there a bridge?' His smile was wistful, filled with longing. 'There is.' 'But you cannot cross it.' 'No.' 'Because it's burning.' 'Yes, witch, the bridge burns.

She seemed doomed ever to open her arms to the wrong lover, to love fully yet never be so loved in return. It made her pathetic stock in this retinue of squandered opportunities that scrawled out the history of a clumsy life.

She wept for the man she had abandoned, fleeing the pain she had seen in his eyes, as his love for her kept him stumbling in her wake, matching each footfall yet unable to come any closer. For that she could not allow. The intricate patterns on a hooded snake held mesmerizing charms, but the bite was no less deadly for that. She was the same. There was nothing in her – nothing that she could see – worth the overwhelming gift of love. Nothing in her worthy of him.

An Elegy, Years After Sarah" So her ceiling a map of stars. First time we made love late afternoon late winter, and after she slept how her room fogged up with dusk and paper stars she'd stuck up there in childhood came out in strange constellations and I missed the earth till her room was night her breath deepening the stars cooling down: I said come closer and her eyes — half-open, flashing back whatever light there was — went out.

He hands the page to his wife and looks across the room to Colleen's picture, listening to her absence, breathing deeply the air she can't share.

I rush to her side and touch her cold skin, hoping against hope for a pulse.

Her body begs to be taken away and put into a warm bed with the sheets pulled high, even though nothing can help now.

But what worse fate could there be? To remember love and know it is unattainable?

Others saw in the trend still another instance of a disturbing tendency in the American suburb: the longing for withdrawal, for self-enclosure, for expensive isolation.

And she was not beautiful asleep. Her expression slack and not angelic. The very ordinariness of it so beautiful he felt a yearning to be something more than he was or could be. And as good a player as he was, he knew as he turned on the reel to reel and hugged the Fender once again that nothing he composed would ever be as beautiful as her ordinary sleep. Watching her he played the music of her sleeping. And by surrendering made something beautiful.

Cecie keeps telling him she'd like to take him home some night, husband or no. The Minotaur waits hopefully. Husband or no.

Some for the Glories of the World, and some Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;

Harold under his breath: "Ms. Yuka, I would love to kiss the backs of your legs while you were in line in a bank.

I'll have your heart, if not by gift my knife Shall carve it out. I'll have your heart, your life.

Love me, Love me, I cried to the rocks and the trees, And Love me, they cried again, but it was only to tease. Once I cried Love me to the people, but they fled like a dream, And when I cried Love to my friend, she began to scream. Oh why do they leave me, the beautiful people, and only the rocks remain, To cry Love me, as I cry Love me, and Love me again.

I am hungry to be interrupted For ever and ever amen

Hope and desire, All unfulfilled. Have more than rope And hangman killed.

Often, as she leafed through the sticky, plastic-coated pages, spotting herself with a frizzy perm or wearing a loud, printed blouse, she was struck by how long life was, and how much time had passed, and she wished she could go back and apologize to those closest to her, explain that she understood now. Impossible, and yet the urge to return and be a different person never lessened, grew only more acute.

Behöver man vara rädd för den man har älskat? För jag älskade henne. Jag älskade henne verkligen. Det är sant. Men jag är ju inte rädd. Jag bara saknar henne. Först gjorde jag det inte. Ty inte saknar man det som inte finns. Nu vet jag att hon finns. Hon finns ini mig. Därför att hon älskade mig, finns hon ini mig. Därför skall jag låta henne stanna.