Quotes About Emotion

It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is

Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.

Never shall a young man, Thrown into despair By those great honey-coloured Ramparts at your ear, Love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.

You will forget me soon. Oh dear one, hate me rather than forget.

I Sing what was lost and dread what was won, I walk in a battle fought over again

Never give all the heart, for love Will hardly seem worth thinking of To passionate women if it seem Certain, and they never dream That it fades out from kiss to kiss; For everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy, kind delight. O never give the heart outright, from "Never give all the heart

I kiss you and the world begins to fade. – W. B. Yeats, The Land of Heart's Desire (? Jennings Press, August 25, 2008) Originally published 1894.

Jerome. That is a terribly wild thought. I hope you don't believe all you say. Paul Ruttledge. Perhaps not. I only know that I want to upset everything about me. Have you not noticed that it is a complaint many of us have in this country? and whether it comes from love or hate I don't know, they are so mixed together here.

Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!

We sat as silent as a stone, We knew, though she'd not said a word, That even the best of love must die, And had been savagely undone Were it not that Love upon the cry Of a most ridiculous little bird Tore from the clouds his marvellous moon.

To know the mountain and the valley have grieved May be a quiet thought [...]

Nothing that we love over-much Is ponderable to our touch.

O you are wild for love of me And I with love am wild

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

An old man plays the bagpipes In a gold and silver wood; Queens, their eyes blue like the ice, Are dancing in a crowd.

What can be explained is not poetry.

Desire, even in its wildest tantrums, can neither persuade me it is love nor stop me from wishing it were.

Like love we don't know where or why Like love we cant compel or fly Like Love we often weep Like Love we seldom keep

Poetry makes nothing happen.

He presses my hand and he says he loves me, Which I find an admirable peculiarity.

The identification of fantasy is always an attempt to avoid one's own suffering: the identification of art is the sharing in the suffering of another.

Poetry might be defined as the clear expression of mixed feelings..

For love: a poet. For romance: a journalist.

For poetry makes nothing happen.