Quotes About Emotion

My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once…

I cannot paint what then I was.

Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things And battles long ago.

The human mind is capable of excitement without the application of gross and violent stimulants...

I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sat reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts, Bring sad thoughts to the mind." William Wordsworth

I have slept Weeping, and weeping I have waked; my tears Have flow'd as if my body were not such As others are, and I could never die.

Three chords and the truth - that's what a country song is.

A lot of country music is sad.

The most efficient water power in the world - women's tears.

What I saw was more than I could stand. The noise I heard had been made by Little Ann. All her life she had slept by Old Dan's side. And although he was dead, she had left the doghouse, had come back to the porch, and snuggled up by his side.

My heart started acting like a drunk grasshopper.

Johnny zingt geen liedjes. Johnny is zelf een liedje.

No Water made her want to be taken, which was exciting and frightening. Crazy Horse made her want to give, which was fulfilling. She

But facts fall short of truth, because truth includes the yearnings of the human heart—

The need to break her, to make her move to the touch of his harness, pumped through him like hot blood and bile. No

The need to express ourselves at all costs is hard-wired into our brains as deeply as our drive for food or sex.

this observation leads Rozin to a stunning conclusion: "Disgust is the basic emotion of civilization.

Pooh, how do you spell love?' 'You don't spell love Piglet, you feel it

Some poeople care too much....I think its called Loved

The greatest thing is to have someone who loves you and—and to love in return.

There were no tears in her. The wound went too deep, or she was not so constituted to give way to it. Hers would be the perpetual ache of loss and loneliness, slowly dulled with time until it became a part of her character, a faint sourness tinged with withered pride.

Tenderness is not like money: the more you give to one, the more you have for others.

He was a man of moods, yet he was her constant, something unchanging, infinitely reliable, the pivot of her life. There could never be anyone else. Without him she would not be more than half alive.

His was not an easy face to read, and no one could have told that in the past half hour he had suffered the worst knock of his life. Except that he no longer whistled into the wind or talked to his irritable mare, there was nothing to show.