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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

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Arthur Symons
Age: 79 †
Born: 1865
Born: February 28
Died: 1945
Died: January 22
Art Historian
Literary Critic
Poet
Translator
Writer
Aberdaugleddau
Arthur William Symons
Arthur Symons
Heart
Aspire
Love
Flames
Till
Burning
Smoke
Clouds
Flaming
Fire
Windy
Soul
Cloud

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Here in a little lonely room I am master of earth and sea, And the planets come to me.
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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.
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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.
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But we have been taught to see before our eyes have found out a way of seeing for themselves.
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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.
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The wind is rising on the sea,The windy white foam-dancers leapAnd the sea moans uneasily,And turns to sleep, and cannot sleep.
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My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.
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Art begins when a man wishes to immortalize the most vivid moment he has ever lived.
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There are certain natures to whom work is nothing, the act of work everything.
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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!
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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.
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Without charm there can be no fine literature, as there can be no perfect flower without fragrance.
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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.
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The gray-green stretch of sandy grass,Indefinitely desolateA sea of lead, a sky of slateAlready 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.
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To have loved, to have been made happy thus, / What better fate has life in store for us?
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The mystic too full of God to speak intelligibly to the world.
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I had my dreams of Venice, but nothing that I had dreamed was as impossible as what I found.
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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.
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It is in their eyes that their magic resides.
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Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears, A naked runner lost in a storm of spears.
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