Hairs Quotes (page 32)
-
-
-
Lying asleep between the strokes of night. I saw my love lean over my sad bed, Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head, Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite, Too wan for blushing and too warm for white, But perfect-coloured without white or red. And her lips opened amorously, and said--I wist not what, saving one word--Delight. And all her face was honey to my mouth, And all her body pasture to my eyes; The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire, The quivering flanks,...
Algernon Charles Swinburne
I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
Sylvia Plath
I am a king's daughter, And if I cared to care, The moon that has no mistress. Would flutter in my hair. No one dares to cherish. What I choose to crave. Never have I hungered, For that I did not have. I am a kings daughter, And I grow old within. The prison of my person, The shackles of my skin. And I would run away. And beg from door to door, Just to see your shadow. Once, and never more.
Peter S. Beagle
How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 8:30 a. m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?
Charles Bukowski
The world is being run by people my age, men my age, with falling-out hair and health worries, and it frightens me. When the leaders were older than me I could believe in their wisdom, I could believe they had transcended rage and malice and the need to be loved. Now I know better. I look at the faces in newspapers, in magazines, and wonder: what greeds, what furies drive them on?
Margaret Atwood
Life is truly a ride. We're all strapped in and no one can stop it. When the doctor slaps your behind, he's ripping your ticket and away you go. As you make each passage from youth to adulthood to maturity, sometimes you put your arms up and scream, sometimes you just hang on to that bar in front of you. But the ride is the thing. I think the most you can hope for at the end of life is that your hair's messed, you're out of breath, and you didn't throw up.
Jerry Seinfeld
Bubble gum angels swooped from top margins or scraped their wings between teeming paragraphs, maidens with golden hair dripped sea blue tears into the books spine, grape-colored whales spouted blood around a newspaper item (pasted in) listing arrivals to the endangered spieces list. Six hatchlings cried from shattered shells near an entry made on Easter. Cecilia had filled the pages with a profusion of colors and curlicues, candyland ladders and striped shamrocks.
Jeffrey Eugenides
For much longer, he could have stayed with Kamaswami, made money, wasted money, filled his stomach, and let his soul die of thirst; for much longer he could have lived in this soft, well upholstered hell, if this had not happened: the moment of complete hopelessness and despair, that most extreme moment, when he hang over the rushing waters and was ready to destroy himself. That he had felt this despair, this deep disgust, and that he had not succumbed to it, that the bird, the joyful source...
Herman Hesse
And Iseult rose up where she sat apart, And with her sweet soul deepening her deep eyes. Cast the furs from her and subtle embroideries. That wrapped her from the storming rain and spray, And shining like all April in one day, Hair, face, and throat dashed with the straying showers, She stood the first of all the whole world's flowers, And laughed on Tristram with her eyes, and said,"I too have heart then, I was not afraid."And answering some light courteous word of grace. He saw her clear...
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Your little sister. Has tossed her Untied hair forward. Like a living veil, Like a fragrant hedge, And peers, with such eyes! Through a fragrant veil, Through a dark hedge ... How sweet it is to only. Think of such little things. Fruits have ripened. On all the longing branches In your nightly garden, Chinese lanterns like red fruits. Sway and illuminate. The longing branches. Rustled by the night wind. In your little garden ... How sweet it is to only. Think of such little things.
Hugo von Hofmannsthal