Quote

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.

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
Air
Gray
Stark
Lead
Stone
Desolate
Already
Tone
Monotony
Takes
Grass
Stretch
Acutely
White
Stones
Alas
Indefinitely
Long
Sky
Sunset
Sandy
Sea
Autumn
Starks
Green
Hotel
Slate

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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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Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears, A naked runner lost in a storm of spears.
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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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Art begins when a man wishes to immortalize the most vivid moment he has ever lived.
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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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But we have been taught to see before our eyes have found out a way of seeing for themselves.
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The mystic too full of God to speak intelligibly to the world.
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My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.
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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 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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There are certain natures to whom work is nothing, the act of work everything.
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The desert of virginity Aches in the hotness of her mouth.
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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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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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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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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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To have loved, to have been made happy thus, / What better fate has life in store for us?
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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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