Quotes About Emotion

And what if excess of love Bewildered them till they died?

But he heard high up in the air A piper piping away, And never was piping so sad, And never was piping so gay.

And no more turn aside and brood Upon love's bitter mystery;

Uzakl?klar sevenler için önemsizdir.  Çünkü gerçek sevgiyi anlatan tek duygu; özlemektir

Before I am old I shall have written him one Poem maybe as cold And passionate as the dawn.

If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem.

All women are not Helen, I know that, but have Helen in their hearts.

I would say poetry is language charged with emotion. It's words, rhythmically organized . . . A poem is a complete little universe. It exists separately. Any poem that has any worth expresses the whole life of the poet. It gives a view of what the poet is.

Words cut deeper than knives. A knife can be pulled out, words are embedded into our souls.

I will love you more today than I loved you yesterday, and I will love you even more, tomorrow.

Words cut deeper than knives

Do not keep the alabaster boxes of your love and tenderness sealed up until your friends are dead. Fill their lives with sweetness, speak cheering words while their ears can hear, and while their hearts can be thrilled and made happier by them.

Beauty is the lover's gift.

Grief is itself a med'cine.

Fanaticism soberly defined, is the false fire of an over heated mind.

A poem is contained movement.

Cupid, you see, was a more dangerous archer than even mighty Apollo, for, although Apollo's arrows could drain one's life blood in an instant, a wound from Cupid's arrows would cause one to fall deeply in love

Given a choice between grief and nothing, I'd choose grief.

Why do you hate the South?I dont hate it…. I dont hate it…. I dont hate it he thought, panting in the cold air, the iron New England dark; I dont. I dont! I dont hate it! I dont hate it!

Perhaps they were right putting love into books. Perhaps it could not live anywhere else.

I write because I hate. A lot. Hard.

As Rilke observed, love requires a progressive shortening of the senses: I can see you for miles; I can hear you for blocks, I can smell you, maybe, for a few feet, but I can only touch on contact, taste as I devour

Sometimes I think you're just too sweet to die Sometimes I think you're just too sweet to die Another time I think you oughta be buried alive. —RICHARD "RABBIT" BROWN, James Alley Blues, 1927

There can be no passion, and by consequence no love, where there is not imagination.