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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.

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
Rising
Uneasily
Sea
Wind
Moans
Sleep
Windy
Turns
Foam
White
Dancers
Cannot
Leap
Dancer

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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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My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.
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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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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 making of one's life into art is, after all, the first duty and privilege of every man.
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There are certain natures to whom work is nothing, the act of work everything.
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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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The desert of virginity Aches in the hotness of her mouth.
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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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Art begins when a man wishes to immortalize the most vivid moment he has ever lived.
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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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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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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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Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears, A naked runner lost in a storm of spears.
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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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Without charm there can be no fine literature, as there can be no perfect flower without fragrance.
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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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