Quotes by Arthur Symons - Page 1

Night, a more perfect day.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Night
Perfect
Perfect Days
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It is in their eyes that their magic resides.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Cat
Eye
Magic
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My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Cloudy
Opal
Soul
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Leave words to them whom words, not doings, move.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Doings
Moving
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The desert of virginity Aches in the hotness of her mouth.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Ache
Desert
Mouths
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The mystic too full of God to speak intelligibly to the world.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Mystic
Speak
World
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All art is a form of artifice.For in art there can be no prejudices.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Art
Form
Prejudice
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I have laid sorrow to sleep;Love sleeps.She who oft made me weepNow weeps.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Made
Sleep
Sorrow
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There are certain natures to whom work is nothing, the act of work everything.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Work
Certain
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Art begins when a man wishes to immortalize the most vivid moment he has ever lived.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Art
Men
Wish
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Here in a little lonely room I am master of earth and sea, And the planets come to me.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Loneliness
Lonely
Sea
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To have loved, to have been made happy thus, / What better fate has life in store for us?
Arthur Symons / Poet
Love
Fate
Made
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Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears, A naked runner lost in a storm of spears.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Dream
Life
Night
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The making of one's life into art is, after all, the first duty and privilege of every man.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Art
Men
Firsts
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I had my dreams of Venice, but nothing that I had dreamed was as impossible as what I found.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Dream
Impossible
Venice
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A realist, in Venice, would become a romantic by mere faithfulness to what he saw before him.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Romantic
Faithfulness
Mere
Realist
Saws
Venice
Saw
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But we have been taught to see before our eyes have found out a way of seeing for themselves.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Eye
Vision
Way
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Without charm there can be no fine literature, as there can be no perfect flower without fragrance.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Flower
Literature
Perfect
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Love is a flaming heart, and its flames aspire / Till they cloud the soul in the smoke of a windy fire.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Love
Fire
Heart
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The clamours of spring are the same old delicate noises, The earth renews its magical youth at a breath.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Earth
Noise
Spring
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The English mist is always at work like a subtle painter, and London is a vast canvas prepared for the mist to work on.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Canvas
London
Mist
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And I would have, now love is over, An end to all, an end: I cannot, having been your lover Stoop to become your friend!
Arthur Symons / Poet
Love
Ends
Stoops
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I heard the sighing of the reedsAt noontide and at evening,And some old dream I had forgottenI seemed to be remembering.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Dream
Evening
Remember
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God, like all highest things, Hides light in shade, And in the night his visitings To sleep and dreams are clearliest made.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Dream
Night
Sleep
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The wind is rising on the sea,The windy white foam-dancers leap;And the sea moans uneasily,And turns to sleep, and cannot sleep.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Sea
Sleep
Wind
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A place has almost the shyness of a person, with strangers; and its secret is not to be surprised by a too direct interrogation.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Travel
Secret
Stranger
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What we ask of him is, that he should find out for us more than we can find out for ourselves... He must have the passion of a lover.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Criticism
Lovers
Passion
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I have loved colours, and not flowers;Their motion, not the swallows wings;And wasted more than half my hoursWithout the comradeship of things.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Flower
Half
Wings
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Criticism is properly the rod of divination: a hazel switch for the discovery of buried treasure, not a birch twig for the castigation of offenders.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Criticism
Discovery
Treasure
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My life is like a music-hall,Where, in the impotence of rage,Chained by enchantment to my stall,I see myself upon the stageDance to amuse a music-hall.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Enchantment
Life Is Like
Rage
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The dead are happy, having no desire. I rise and fall, and rise and fall again, Something is in me, famishing for bread, Baffled and unappeasable as fire.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Desire
Fall
Fire
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Vaguely conscious of that great suspense in which we live, we find our escape from its sterile, annihilating reality in many dreams, in religion, passion, art.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Art
Dream
Passion
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As perfume doth remain In the folds where it hath lain, So the thought of you, remaining Deeply folded in my brain, Will not leave me: all things leave me: You remain.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Love
All Things
Brain
Crush
Perfume
Deeply
Doth
Leave
Folded
Hath
Remain
Where
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He knew that the whole mystery of beauty can never be comprehended by the crowd, and that while clearness is a virtue of style, perfect explicitness is not a necessary virtue.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Beauty
Perfect
Style
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There is not a dream which may not come true, if we have the energy which makes, or chooses, our own fate.... It is only the dreams of those light sleepers who dream faintly that do not come true.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Dream
Fate
Light
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Sweet, can I sing you the song of your kisses? How soft is this one, how subtle this is, How fluttering swift as a bird's kiss that is, As a bird that taps at a leafy lattice; How this one clings and how that uncloses From bud to flower in the way of roses.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Love
Crush
Song
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The gray-green stretch of sandy grass,Indefinitely desolate;A sea of lead, a sky of slate;Already autumn in the air, alas!One stark monotony of stone,The long hotel, acutely white,Against the after-sunset lightWithers gray-green, and takes the grass's tone.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Air
Autumn
Sunset
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Hardly any one is able to see what is before him, just as it is in itself. He comes expecting one thing, he finds another thing, he sees through the veil of his preconception, he criticizes before he has apprehended, he condemns without allowing his instinct the chance of asserting itself.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Able
Veils
Vision
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I know the woman has no soul, I know The woman has no possibilities Of soul or mind or heart, but merely is The masterpiece of flesh: well, be it so. It is her flesh that I adore; I go Thirsting afresh to drain her empty kiss. I know she cannot love: it is not this My vanquished heart implores in overthrow. Tyrannously I crave, I crave alone, Her splendid body, Earth's most eloquent Music, divinest human harmony; Her body now a silent instrument, That 'neath my touch shall wake and make for me The strains I have but dreamed of, never known.
Arthur Symons / Poet
Women
Heart
Kissing
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Arthur Symons Quotes - Page 1

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