Arthur Symons
Arthur Symons
Arthur William Symons, was a British poet, critic and magazine editor...
NationalityBritish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth28 February 1865
beauty perfect style
He knew that the whole mystery of beauty can never be comprehended by the crowd, and that while clearness is a virtue of style, perfect explicitness is not a necessary virtue.
night perfect-days perfect
Night, a more perfect day.
flower perfect literature
Without charm there can be no fine literature, as there can be no perfect flower without fragrance.
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.
sleep sorrow made
I have laid sorrow to sleep;Love sleeps.She who oft made me weepNow weeps.
vision veils able
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 veil of his preconception, he criticizes before he has apprehended, he condemns without allowing his instinct the chance of asserting itself.
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.