Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Writing. Love is writing.
Dance until the earth dance.
The whole white world is ours.
The quivering of Psyche's butterflies.
There's a black rose growing in your garden.
One flower may slay the winter and meet death.
Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
No one knows the colour of a flower till it is broken.
There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
Dead men would start and move toward me to learn of love.
O do not weep, she says, for ages past I was and I endure
For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
Fall the deep curtains, delicate the weave, fair the thread.
War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
I had drawn away into the salt, myself, a shell emptied of life.
I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
I fear no man, no woman; flower does not fear bird, insect nor adder.
Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
No one knows, the heart of a child, how it grows until it is too late.
Why wait for Death to mow? why wait for Death to sow us in the ground?
Love that I bear within my breast how is my armour melted how my heart
Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
Luminous, unfearful; high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
Every concrete object has abstract value, is timeless in the dream parallel.
A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
O ruthless, perilous, imperious hate, you can not thwart the promptings of my soul.
We don't have to know,only to be:let go the jumble of worn words,reason and vanity.
Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
The things I have are nameless, old and true; they may not be named; few may live and know.
I smiled, I waited, I was circumspect; O never, never, never write that I missed life or loving.
(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus.
I will be free, no lover's kiss to bind me to earth, no bliss of love to counteract actual bliss.
You will not see that desire begets love, until it all flames into one concise and metallic blaze.
There is no man can take, there is no pool can slake, ultimately I am alone; ultimately I am done.
O happy, happy each man whom predestined fate leads to the holy rite of hill and mountain worship.
I testify to rainbow feathers, to the span of heaven and walls of colour, the colonnades of jasper.
The elixir of life, the philosopher's stone is yours if you surrender sterile logic, trivial reason.
You are wind in a stark tree, you are the stark tree unbent, you are a strung bow, you are an arrow.
Escape from the power of the hunting pack, and to know that wisdom is best and beauty sheer holiness.
Love, why have you sought the horde of spearsmen, why the tent Achilles pitched beside the river-ford?
Who dreams of a son, save one, childless, having no bright face to flatter its own, who dreams of a son?