Posts Tagged 'love'

Aubade by Edna St. Vincent Millay

from “Aubade”

From the wound of my enemy that thrust me through in the dark wood
I arose; with sweat on my lip and the wild wood grasses in my spur
I arose and stood.
But never did I arise from loving her.

Millay, Edna St. Vincent. Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay. New York: Harper, 1939.

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The Philosopher by Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Philosopher
Edna St. Vincent Millay

AND what are you that, missing you,
I should be kept awake
As many nights as there are days
With weeping for your sake?

And what are you that, missing you,
As many days as crawl
I should be listening to the wind
And looking at the wall?

I know a man that’s a braver man
And twenty men as kind,
And what are you, that you should be
The one man in my mind?

Yet women’s ways are witless ways,
As any sage will tell,–
And what am I, that I should love
So wisely and so well?

Millay, Edna St. Vincent. Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay. New York: Harper, 1939.

The Bone Clocks by David Mitchell – IV

Experimentally, silently, I mouth I love you … No one hears, no one sees, but the tree falls in the forest just the same.

Mitchell, David. The Bone Clocks: A Novel. New York: Random House, 2014.

The Bone Clocks by David Mitchell – II

I consider how you don’t get to choose whom you’re attracted to, you only get to wonder about it retrospectively.

Mitchell, David. The Bone Clocks: A Novel. New York: Random House, 2014.

The Last Policeman by Ben H. Winters

Because as any writer will tell you, an IDEA for a book is like falling in love, it’s all wild emotion and headlong rush, but the ACTUAL ACT of writing a book is like building a relationship: it is joyous, slow, fragile, frustrating, exhilarating, painstaking, exhausting, worth it.

Winters, Ben H. The Last Policeman. Philadelphia: Quirk, 2012.

The Penultimate Peril by Lemony Snicket – I

But we can also ask for something we are much more likely to get, and that is to find a person or two, somewhere in our travels, who will tell us that we are noble enough, whether it is true or not. We can ask for someone who will say, “You are noble enough,” and remind us of our good qualities when we have forgotten them, or cast them into doubt.

 

Snicket, Lemony. The Penultimate Peril. New York: HarperCollins, 2005.

Love & Literature by Andre Maurois

In literature, as in love, we are astonished at what is chosen by others.

 

Andre Maurois

Orthodoxy by G K Chesterton – V

Love is not blind; that is the last thing that it is. Love is bound; and the more it is bound the less it is blind.

The West Wind (Part 9) by Mary Oliver

And what did you think love would be like? A summer day? The brambles in their places, and the long stretches of mud? Flowers in every field, in every garden, with their soft beaks and their pastel shoulders? On one street after another, the litter ticks in the gutter. In one room after another, the lovers meet, quarrel, sicken, break apart, cry out. One or two leap from windows. Most simply lean, exhausted, their thin arms on the sill. They have done all that they could. The golden eagle, that lives not far from here, has perhaps a thousand tiny feathers flowing from the back of its head, each one shaped like an infinitely small but perfect spear.

 

Oliver, Mary. “West Wind.” New and Selected Poems. Volume Two. Boston, MA: Beacon, 2005.  

i carry your heart with me by E.E. Cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

 

Cummings, E. E. Complete Poems, 1904-1962. Ed. George James. Firmage. New York: Liveright, 1991. Print.