Quotes About Emotion

I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.

I am proud to be an emotionalist.

I think of you so often you have no idea.

You find my words dark. Darkness is in our souls, do you not think?

Do you know what a pearl is and what an opal is? My soul when you came sauntering to me first through those sweet summer evenings was beautiful but with the pale passionless beauty of a pearl. Your love has passed through me and now I feel my mind something like an opal, that is, full of strange uncertain hues and colours, of warm lights and quick shadows and of broken music.

Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration.

I'll tickle his catastrophe.

In one letter that he had written to her then he had said: Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?

Yes, it was her he was looking at, and there was meaning in his look. His eyes burned into her as though they would search her through and through, read her very soul.

they were yung and easily freudened..

My body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.

Oblige me by taking away that knife. I can't look at the point of it. It reminds me of Roman history.

The barometer of his emotional nature was set for a spell of riot.

Bite my laughters, drink my tears. Pore into me, volumes, spell me stark and spill me swooning, I just don't care what my thwarters think.

Thought and plot are not so important as some would make them out to be. The object of any work of art is the transference of emotion; talent is the gift of conveying that emotion

And then a rocket sprang and bang shot blind and O! then the Roman candle burst and it was like a sigh of O! and everyone cried O!O! in raptures and it gushed out of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and they shed and ah! they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so lively! O so soft, sweet, soft!

Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!" ("The end of pleasure is pain!")

Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?

His eyes were dimmed with tears and, looking humbly up to heaven, he wept for the innocence he had lost.

Lips kissed, kissing kissed.

They listened feeling that flow endearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine.

His heart danced upon her movements like a cork on the tide.