All Quotes By Tag: Words

“The value of ones heart is in the reminders of what fills it,words may sustain for a while but actions will always be the hope”

“If this turns to friendship, it only meansThat one of us will suffer.That when we meet after the worst of endings,There will only be this skein of words between us—Most of them for boredom, fewer for loneliness—Rising out of our mutual space of breath, leavingBehind a bluer sky each moment of departure.And one of us will cling on to its blue,Hung on partings like a muted cloud, whileThe other rides on a wing of word away from here.”

“He knew his words could not convey the impossible love he felt for her, so he held her stare and hoped (prayed!) she would understand the immensity of it all.”

“Poetry flows from our hearts. It is like that mass of snow we call a glacier and when it starts its slow movement, it thaws all the icicles, which keep mounting within us, in the hope of receiving the warmth of words.”

“Love is one of those topics that plenty of people try to write about but not enough try to do.”

“It takes but a handful of words to ambush my soul with hope. Yet, the vexing question in it all is why do I so often ambush the words?”

“I clung to each word that fell from his lips like a spider to a web.”

“The Word of God is never mere words.”

“All you must do is say ‘Once there was…’ and let your hoping find the words.”

“I hear the fear and hope fighting in my voice.”

“How amazing these words are that slowly come to me. How wonderfully on and on they go.Will the words end, I askwhenever I remember to.Nope, my sister says, all of five years oldnow,and promising meinfinity.”

“Find the pitch and pace and syllables and words you love to hear. Delight your own senses, and self-romance.”

“Our words may not cause plants to sprout, but they can make hope spring forth in a human heart.”

“It was language I loved, not meaning. I liked poetry better when I wasn’t sure what it meant. Eliot has said that the meaning of the poem is provided to keep the mind busy while the poem gets on with its work — like the bone thrown to the dog by the robber so he can get on with his work. . . . Is beauty a reminder of something we once knew, with poetry one of its vehicles? Does it give us a brief vision of that ‘rarely glimpsed bright face behind/ the apparency of things’? Here, I suppose, we ought to try the impossible task of defining poetry. No one definition will do. But I must admit to a liking for the words of Thomas Fuller, who said: ‘Poetry is a dangerous honey. I advise thee only to taste it with the Tip of thy finger and not to live upon it. If thou do’st, it will disorder thy Head and give thee dangerous Vertigos.”

“Whatever you get out of poetry – take it. take it. take it. Words are better off felt than understood.”