“Wandering, ever wandering, Because life holds not anything so good As to be free of yesterday, and bound Towards a new to-morrow ; and they wend Into a world of unknown faces, where It may be there are faces waiting… — Arthur Symons Copy Share Image
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! — Arthur Symons Copy Share Image
A place has almost the shyness of a person, with strangers; and its secret is not to be surprised by a too direct interrogation. — Arthur Symons Copy Share Image
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… — Arthur Symons Copy Share Image
The clamours of spring are the same old delicate noises, The earth renews its magical youth at a breath. — Arthur Symons Copy Share Image
Without charm there can be no fine literature, as there can be no perfect flower without fragrance. — Arthur Symons Copy Share Image
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… — Arthur Symons Copy Share
God, like all highest things, Hides light in shade, And in the night his visitings To sleep and dreams are clearliest made. — Arthur Symons Copy Share Image
A realist, in Venice, would become a romantic by mere faithfulness to what he saw before him. — Arthur Symons Copy Share Image
The English mist is always at work like a subtle painter, and London is a vast canvas prepared for the mist to work on. — Arthur Symons Copy Share Image
I had my dreams of Venice, but nothing that I had dreamed was as impossible as what I found. — Arthur Symons Copy Share Image
Hardly any one is able to see what is before him, just as it is in itself. He comes expecting one thing, he finds… — Arthur Symons Copy Share Image
Sweet, can I sing you the song of your kisses? How soft is this one, how subtle this is, How fluttering swift as a… — Arthur Symons Copy Share Image
