Quotes About Longing

For run as fast as ever I may, My heart Moves only with you, Only with your blossoms, Remembering them Or awaiting them, Moving when you move in the wind And still when you are still.

Though you have sailed no farther from me Than a quiet bay Beyond a point of cedars, Yet you have been as far away As death.

Only by remembering you, O east of my west, Can I make my lovers real to me, And only by forgetting you Can I find my truest solitude Strange and unknown to me.

There is a chill deeper than that of death, In the return of the beloved and not of love. And there is no warmth for it But the warmth of a world which needs more than the sun-- Or the warmth of lament for beauty, Which is graven on many stones.

I keep my closet neat now, The skeleton well covered. But when you even walk by the locked door, The breezes of your look Stir what hangs inside-- And I wonder what you are hearing When those knee-bones knock together.

...I must see you again — die in your arms or live in your embrace.

Another day, another pang that you are afar.

When you are not at hand to kiss away my fears I cannot choose but be wretched.

[M]y eyes moistened yesterday with your dear, dear letter in my hand. Was it foolish to kiss the senseless paper, to clasp it with the involuntary laugh of uncontrollable emotion? Don't you think one could go mad of pure longing?...

What is the reason that, where'er I go, A sad sensation--not exactly woe, Though still sometimes approaching wretchedness, A wish for something that I can't express, A recklessness as to my future lot, Existence wanting--wanting--don't know what, Should weigh me down? When I Bonabben question, He answers shortly that "it's indigestion.

Her tone spoke less of nostalgia than reproach, of feelings long coveted and repeated whenever she had the chance.

People wait around too long for love. I'm happy with all of my lusts!

Ma vivi altrove. Il tuo tenero sangue si è fatto altrove. Le parole che dici non hanno riscontro con la scabra tristezza di questo cielo. [...]

You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.

If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.

You can't get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.

It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.

Mortal lovers must not try to remain at the first step. For lasting passion is the dream of a harlot, and from it we wake in despair.

Does absence have a weight?

A soul loves most what is lost...

Were not the autonomy of the individual the secret longing of many people it would scarcely be able to survive the collective suppression either morally or spiritually.

All this being so, it is not strange that the artist is an especially interesting case for the psychologist who uses an analytical method. The artist's life cannot be otherwise than full of conflicts, for two forces are at war within him—on the one hand the common human longing for happiness, satisfaction and security in life, and on the other a ruthless passion for creation which may go so far as to override every personal desire.

This recognition, that one must give up the retrospective longing which only wants to resuscitate the torpid bliss and effortlessness of childhood, before the "heavenly ones" wrench the sacrifice from us (and with it the entire man), came too late to the poet.

If the libido is not permitted to follow the progressive life, which is willing to accept all dangers and all losses, then it follows the other road, sinking into its own depths, working down into the old foreboding regarding the immortality of all life, to the longing for rebirth.