Literature

The moon, alone,
Taunts me from the heavens
With memories of you;
Should you feel the same, then
...
- Saigyo Hoshi
What if we still carry shame on our forehead,
Marks of the whip, signs of bondage abhorrent;
What ...
- Ivan Vazov
The Grave said to the Rose,
"What of the dews of dawn,
Love's flower, what end is theirs?&q...
- Victor Hugo
Let them talk, let them talk,
let the crows flap their wings,
for what my eyes have seen
must not...
- Emilio Prados
How can I vanish
Before meeting someone
Like a water bubble
Ceaselessly flowing
On a stream of t...
- Lady Ise
The invisible particles of the air
quiver and ignite around me;
the sky dissolves into rays of gol...
- Gustavo Adolfo Becquer
The brooding ghosts of Australian night have gone from the bush and town;
My spirit revives in the...
- Henry Lawson
By far the worst is the hamburger lady.
We must heal them for the qualified technicians,
Worse,
A...
- Genesis P-Orridge
In these red labyrinths of London
I find that I have chosen
the strangest of all callings,
save t...
- Jorge Luis Borges
A shepherd shearing sheep one day
Declaimed most zealously
Upon the care was ta’en of sh...
- Ignacy Krasicki
They say I pretend or lie
All I write. No such thing.
It simply is that I
Feel by imagining.
I d...
- Fernando Pessoa
No one saw him disembark in the unanimous night, no one saw the bamboo canoe sink into the sacred mu...
- Jorge Luis Borges
That tree whose leaves are trembling
is yearning for something.

That tree so lovely to look at...
- Diego Hurtado de Mendoza
What else could we do, for the doors were guarded,
What else could we do, for they had imprisoned u...
- Paul Eluard
How heavy the days are.
There's not a fire that can warm me,
Not a sun to laugh with me,
Everythi...
- Hermann Hesse
The older you get the stronger the wind gets - and it's always in your face....
- Pablo Picasso
I would liken you
To a night without stars
Were it not for your eyes.
I would liken you
To a sle...
- Langston Hughes
The moon came into the forge
in her bustle of flowering nard.
The little boy stares at her, stares...
- Federico García Lorca