God, like all highest things, Hides light in shade, And in the night his visitings To sleep and dreams are clearliest made.
Without charm there can be no fine literature, as there can be no perfect flower without fragrance. - Arthur Symons
Without charm there can be no fine literature, as there can be no perfect flower without fragrance.
- Arthur Symons
Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears, A naked runner lost in a storm of spears. - Arthur Symons
Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears, A naked runner lost in a storm of spears.
Hardly any one is able to see what is before him, just as it is in itself. He comes expecting one thing, he finds another thing, he sees through the… - Arthur Symons
Hardly any one is able to see what is before him, just as it is in itself. He comes expecting one thing, he finds another thing, he sees through the…
A realist, in Venice, would become a romantic by mere faithfulness to what he saw before him. - Arthur Symons
A realist, in Venice, would become a romantic by mere faithfulness to what he saw before him.
It is in their eyes that their magic resides. - Arthur Symons
It is in their eyes that their magic resides.
Vaguely conscious of that great suspense in which we live, we find our escape from its sterile, annihilating reality in many dreams, in religion, pas… - Arthur Symons
Vaguely conscious of that great suspense in which we live, we find our escape from its sterile, annihilating reality in many dreams, in religion, pas…
To have loved, to have been made happy thus, / What better fate has life in store for us? - Arthur Symons
To have loved, to have been made happy thus, / What better fate has life in store for us?
The clamours of spring are the same old delicate noises, The earth renews its magical youth at a breath. - Arthur Symons
The clamours of spring are the same old delicate noises, The earth renews its magical youth at a breath.
I heard the sighing of the reedsAt noontide and at evening,And some old dream I had forgottenI seemed to be remembering. - Arthur Symons
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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