Longings Quotes

I have had my share with boys,longings are for men heron.

Let it all go to waste…For what I long for, I’m bound to resign!Bittersweet is, like the taste of wine,This Love’s captivating taste.Let my heart be tormented by wonderIt will never manage to attain.On my window symphony of rain,Open seas resound in strikes of thunder.Let my soul be lost, ‘til Sun is set,And be found reborn within its death,I surrender the very last breath,Confessing my sins with no regret.Let it all go to waste, indeed.For with or without it, the sentence is pain.Therefore, in my stillness, silenced will remain,Everlasting dream and consuming need.

Aleksandra Ninkovic

Minli suddenly thought of Ma and Ba. A wave of longing washed through her and a dryness caught in her throat that the tea could not moisten. Where the Mountain Meets the Moon.

Grace Lin

The Marquess shrugged. “I’m a shadow. I do know I am a shadow, Iago. I know most of the time. It’s only when I cannot bear how everyone looks at me down here that I make myself forget it. Shadows are the other side of yourself. I had longings to be good, even then. I was just stronger than my wanting. I’m stronger than anything, really, when I want to be.” The Marquess’s hair turned white as the snow. “Do you know, we’re right underneath Springtime Parish? This place is the opposite of springtime. Everything past prime, boarded up for the season. Just above us, the light shines golden on daffodils full of rainwine and heartgrass and a terrible, wicked, sad girl I can’t get back to. I don’t even know if I want to. Do I want to be her again? Or do I want to be free? I come here to think about that. To be near her and consider it. I think I shall never be free. I think I traded my freedom for a better story. It was a better story, even if the ending needed work.

Catherynne M. Valente

I'm comming to You.You are blazing.I'm giving You a rose.It embalms sweet.I'm givin a kiss...I melt of You.I melt and flow with You.Like an ice in a spring river.I melt and stay. Sun will vaporise us.It will take us up into clouds.And then we both will fall.Drop by drop.We'll fall out of the sky.We'll raise from dew to fog.Every sunny warm morning.We'll let the wind pull us with him.Cooling our selves in forest shadows.There in silence we'll cool offOne from another.But in stormy days and nights.We'll billow and crash.One to another.Like crazy and wild.We'll churn into white foam.Ashore in sands we'll waitFor the yellow october leavesInto them we'll fall asleep.We'll fall into and freeze.We'll freeze and melt againAnd flow and raise and fall again.Over and over againEven if we were in separete glasses of water.We would moove together and whisper.Even if in the oceans mixed.We would moove together and sing.I'm comming to You.You are blazing.I'm giving You a roseIt embalms sweet....If I'll ever meet You.I' ll take our time...To dance dance dance dance with You...

Martins Paparde

The gilded spiralOf longings within.Our very own cathedralThat points persistently to heaven.

That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Envy is a sign of insecurity, yes; but so is longing to be envied.

Well, let's argue this out, Mr Blank. You, who represent Society, have the right to pay me four hundred francs a month. That's my market value, for I am an inefficient member of Society, slow in the uptake, uncertain, slightly damaged in the fray, there's no denying it. So you have the right to pay me four hundred francs a month, to lodge me in a small, dark room, to clothe me shabbily, to harass me with worry and monotony and unsatisfied longings till you get me to the point when I blush at a look, cry at a word. We can't all be happy, we can't all be rich, we can't all be lucky - and it would be so much less fun if we were. Isn't it so, Mr Blank? There must be the dark background to show up the bright colours. Some must cry so that the others may be able to laugh the more heartily.

Jean Rhys

Later, you told me what your mother had said. How your father, the farmer, rose up slowly. You told me how your mother wailed on the other end of the phone, grieving her loss and complaining about the basketball of a goitre perched on her shoulder. She told you, your father walked onto the veranda and saw a chook floating ten feet above the ground. The chook didn’t flap a feather and just sat there brooding, swaying in the breeze.