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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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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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 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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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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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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I had my dreams of Venice, but nothing that I had dreamed was as impossible as what I found.
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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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The desert of virginity Aches in the hotness of her mouth.
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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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Here in a little lonely room I am master of earth and sea, And the planets come to me.
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It is in their eyes that their magic resides.
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There are certain natures to whom work is nothing, the act of work everything.
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My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.
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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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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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