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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

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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
Desire
Fall
Unappeasable
Something
Baffled
Bread
Rise
Dead
Fire
Happy

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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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It is in their eyes that their magic resides.
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The making of one's life into art is, after all, the first duty and privilege of every man.
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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.
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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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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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Love is a flaming heart, and its flames aspire / Till they cloud the soul in the smoke of a windy fire.
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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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My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.
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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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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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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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The desert of virginity Aches in the hotness of her mouth.
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Art begins when a man wishes to immortalize the most vivid moment he has ever lived.
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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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Without charm there can be no fine literature, as there can be no perfect flower without fragrance.
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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.
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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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Here in a little lonely room I am master of earth and sea, And the planets come to me.
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The mystic too full of God to speak intelligibly to the world.
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