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Quotes about a sense of place

Byron

Canto the Fourth

I
Nothing so difficult as a beginning
In poesy, unless perhaps the end;
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning
The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning;
Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far,
Till our own weakness shows us what we are.

II
But Time, which brings all beings to their level,
And sharp Adversity, will teach at last
Man, -- and, as we would hope, -- perhaps the devil,
That neither of their intellects are vast:
While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel,
We know not this -- the blood flows on too fast;
But as the torrent widens towards the ocean,
We ponder deeply on each past emotion.

[...] Read more

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Eros Turannos

SHE fears him, and will always ask
What fated her to choose him;
She meets in his engaging mask
All reasons to refuse him;
But what she meets and what she fears
Are less than are the downward years,
Drawn slowly to the foamless weirs
Of age, were she to lose him.

Between a blurred sagacity
That once had power to sound him,
And Love, that will not let him be
The Judas that she found him,
Her pride assuages her almost,
As if it were alone the cost.—
He sees that he will not be lost,
And waits and looks around him.

A sense of ocean and old trees
Envelops and allures him;

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poem by from The Man Against the Sky (1916)Report problemRelated quotes
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The Talking Oak

Once more the gate behind me falls;
Once more before my face
I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls,
That stand within the chace.

Beyond the lodge the city lies,
Beneath its drift of smoke;
And ah! with what delighted eyes
I turn to yonder oak.

For when my passion first began,
Ere that, which in me burn'd,
The love, that makes me thrice a man,
Could hope itself return'd;

To yonder oak within the field
I spoke without restraint,
And with a larger faith appeal'd
Than Papist unto Saint.

[...] Read more

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Lyric Simplicity (Revised)

When I write a poem it comes from the heart
It is the place for a really good start
What I have written is impetuous in its purpose
Trying to make sense and not be a bore
Fancy words are not at my core
Days and months go by and to my great frustration
My mind goes blank without information
But then it happens and the words just flow
The spirit soars and my heart is aglow
I am no Pablo Neruda, Rilke, nor Goethe or Keats
I have to go on writing spreading my own seeds.

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Dream In A Thousand Droplets

Unswerving the water runs over familiar steps
Taking along the energy that filtrates each drop
The water runs over my body creating silver rivulets
Clinging to my skin turning it wet and resilient
Forgotten are time space and all tribulations

There is you and eternity in a timeless existence
I reach and you are there beneath the falls
Time stands still only the moment matters
The language of loving hearts perfumes the air
Etching the scent in every rock and crevasse

I release my hold letting the moment fade
A sense of well being sustains my soul
The sound of a sweet timeless acclamation
Takes me away to a safe place within the realm
Reality calls but repose has sealed my fate.

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The Edge

I was blowing in the wind
And I can see the sun setting on the hill
Its almost gone and then hills are greener than Ive ever seen
And this feels too real to me
Just to know the change
Now dont let me leave this moment
Hold me in this place
Where everything is clearer than of all before
And everything makes sense
When you say
Stand on the edge
And dont be afraid to fall
Take a breath and tell me what you see
And you say
Stand on the edge
And dont be afraid to fall
Take a breathe and tell me what you see
As we sat down by the water
In my mind I felt a gentle breeze blew soft against my face
And we talked for hours

[...] Read more

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W. Somerset Maugham

I have an idea that some men are born out of their due place. Accident has cast them amid certain surroundings, but they have always a nostalgia for a home they know not. They are strangers at their birthplace, and the leafy lanes they have known from childhood or the populous streets in which they have played, remain but a place of passage. They may spend their whole lives aliens among their kindred and remain aloof among the only scenes they have ever knows. Perhaps it is this sense of strangeness that sends men far and wide in the search for something permanent, to which they may attach themselves. Perhaps some deep-rooted atavism urges the wanderer back to lands which his ancestors left in the dim beginnings of history. Sometimes a man hits upon a place to which he mysteriously feels that he belongs. Here is the home he sought, and he will settle amid scenes that he has never seen before, among men he has never known, as though they were familiar to him from his birth. Here at last he finds rest.

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Our lives don't really belong to us, you see -- they belong to the world, and in spite of our efforts to make sense of it, the world is a place beyond our understanding.

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Making duplicate copies and computer printouts of things no one wanted even one of in the first place is giving America a new sense of purpose.

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Knowing that everything's futile but still fighting, still raging against the dying of the light -- that's what motivates me all the time ... If you hold that sense of futility in your head for too long, it can begin to eat into you. You can still be aware of it but find a place for it where you can actually exist comfortably and enjoy things.

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