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The desert of virginity Aches in the hotness of her mouth.

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
Mouth
Mouths
Hotness
Aches
Virginity
Ache
Desert

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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 soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.
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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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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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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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Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears, A naked runner lost in a storm of spears.
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The mystic too full of God to speak intelligibly to the world.
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It is in their eyes that their magic resides.
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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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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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Art begins when a man wishes to immortalize the most vivid moment he has ever lived.
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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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There are certain natures to whom work is nothing, the act of work everything.
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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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To have loved, to have been made happy thus, / What better fate has life in store for us?
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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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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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