Arthur Symons
Arthur Symons
Arthur William Symons, was a British poet, critic and magazine editor...
NationalityBritish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth28 February 1865
passion criticism lovers
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.
love ends stoops
And I would have, now love is over, An end to all, an end: I cannot, having been your lover Stoop to become your friend!
love crush song
Sweet, can I sing you the song of your kisses? How soft is this one, how subtle this is, How fluttering swift as a bird's kiss that is, As a bird that taps at a leafy lattice; How this one clings and how that uncloses From bud to flower in the way of roses.
love heart flames
Love is a flaming heart, and its flames aspire / Till they cloud the soul in the smoke of a windy fire.
love fate stores
To have loved, to have been made happy thus, / What better fate has life in store for us?
love crush brain
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.
women heart kissing
I know the woman has no soul, I know The woman has no possibilities Of soul or mind or heart, but merely is The masterpiece of flesh: well, be it so. It is her flesh that I adore; I go Thirsting afresh to drain her empty kiss. I know she cannot love: it is not this My vanquished heart implores in overthrow. Tyrannously I crave, I crave alone, Her splendid body, Earth's most eloquent Music, divinest human harmony; Her body now a silent instrument, That 'neath my touch shall wake and make for me The strains I have but dreamed of, never known.
desert mouths ache
The desert of virginity Aches in the hotness of her mouth.
art prejudice form
All art is a form of artifice.For in art there can be no prejudices.
sunset autumn air
The gray-green stretch of sandy grass,Indefinitely desolate;A sea of lead, a sky of slate;Already 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.
flower wings half
I have loved colours, and not flowers;Their motion, not the swallows wings;And wasted more than half my hoursWithout the comradeship of things.
dream evening remember
I heard the sighing of the reedsAt noontide and at evening,And some old dream I had forgottenI seemed to be remembering.
life-is-like enchantment rage
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.
sleep wind sea
The wind is rising on the sea,The windy white foam-dancers leap;And the sea moans uneasily,And turns to sleep, and cannot sleep.