L'amour ce n'est pas uniquement des paroles; ce n'est pas non plus les baisers. L'amour, c'est un sentiment profond dont le coeur est le symbole.
Quand on s'aime, on offre sa tendresse, sa joie de vivre et sa bonne humeur, avec plaisir; on se donne, soi, tout entier, dans des gestes pleins d'allégresse.
Le bonheur de l'amour, c'est de pouvoir tout aimer, aussi bien le corps que l'esprit, les idées, les différences;
Quand on arrive à oublier les défauts, à se baser sur les qualités, on a vraiment trouvé le chemin de l'amour, dans la pureté et la liberté.
Aimer, c'est être capable de pardonner; c'est dire à l'autre qu'on l'aime, sans jamais se lasser; c'est être capable de retenir sa langue afin de ne pas offenser; c'est reconnaître que l'on peut se tromper.
Pour pouvoir composer « un bouquet de bonheur » Il faut bien commencer par semer dans nos coeurs. Une graine de paix, d'amour et d'indulgence, Une autre de charité, d'union et de tolérance.
Lorsque ces graines germeront dans nos consciences, Nous pourrons récolter ces fleurs en abondance, Composer un bouquet à notre propre convenance, Un bouquet embaumé d'une suave fragrance.
Un petit brin de paix et nous serons sans guerre, Un petit brin d'amour et nous serons des frères, Un grand brin d'indulgence pour savoir pardonner, Un petit brin de charité pour aider son prochain.
Un petit brin d'union, et nous serons des alliés, Un dernier bras de tolérance et voici le bouquet ! « Un bouquet de bonheurs » de nos coeurs transformés, Rendront le monde heureux, allons-nous le composer ?
Hoe heerlijk goed is 't een klein kind te wezen, Klein voor de eenheid van het groot heelal, De pracht, die nooit dit hart bereiken zal, Waarnaar wie grooter ware' een wereld wezen.
0! in een kinderziel wijsheid te wegen, Die 't wisslend leven al zijn kindren geeft, Als elk maar weent en lacht - waarachtig leeft, Zóó kind bij menschen is een rijke zegen!
Ik voel geen lastig lijf: - mijn ziel alleen Buigt zich en luistert naar wat is geleden, Een diepe rust ligt toovrend om mij heen Naar 't oord, dat door geen mensch nog werd betreden.
De warme zon bloeit voor mijn stille voeten, Mijn oogen lachen zacht, haar stil te groeten.
Ik ben een vonk die doelloos, richtingloos, Geworpen in 't heelal mijn vaart begon, Toen bond me aldra aan zich een andre zon En wentlend leef ik ongemeten poos,
Een kern van leven, in zichzelven voos, Vol van de kracht die in en rond mij spon. O dat ik zonder weten eeuwig kon Wentlen in de onbegrepen stralenroos.
Oneindge wereld, onvoltooid heelal En onbegonnen, maar waarin elk deel Beeld van het heel is en een lichtgespeel
Langs de eeuwge banen, zeg, zal eenmaal, zal Ooit zijn het eind van uw gestaadgen brand, Gij diamant in 't holle van een hand?
And when love speaks, the voice of all the gods Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony. William Shakespeare
Store well Life's sheaves, the grains of thought-- Your harvest will be good, If sheaves are bound by ties of love, And evil you've withstood. ARDELIA COTTON BARTON, "Gathering of the Sheaves
Sit in reverie, and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
In oneself lies the whole world and if you know how to look and learn, the door is there and the key is in your hand. Nobody on earth can give you either the key or the door to open, except yourself. Jiddu Krishnamurti
All noise is waste. So cultivate quietness in your speech, in your thoughts, in your emotions.Speak habitually low. Wait for attention and then you low words will be charged with dynamite. Elbert Hubbard
What we plant in the soil of contemplation, we shall reap in the harvest of action Meister Eckhart
Se me ocurre que vas a llegar distinta no exactamente más linda ni más fuerte ni más docil ni más cauta tan solo que vas a llegar distinta como si esta temporada de no verme te hubiera sorprendido a vos también quizá porque sabes cómo te pienso y te enumero
después de todo la nostalgia existe aunque no lloremos en los andenes fantasmales ni sobre las almohadas de candor ni bajo el cielo opaco
yo nostalgio tu nostalgias y cómo me revienta que él nostalgie
tu rostro es la vanguardia tal vez llega primero porque lo pinto en las paredes con trazos invisibles y seguros
no olvides que tu rostro me mira como pueblo sonríe y rabia y canta como pueblo y eso te da una lumbre inapagable ahora no tengo dudas vas a llegar distinta y con señales con nuevas con hondura con franqueza
sé que voy a quererte sin preguntas sé que vas a quererme sin respuestas.
ALMAS DE FLORES Poema del Autora: Elizabeth Barret Browning Versión de Màrie Manent
Nos quedamos contigo, rezagadas, las últimas de aquella muchedumbre, como voz de quien canta y sus propias canciones le enamoran. Somos perfume y alma de la flor y el capullo. Tus pensamientos nos llevamos, cuando nuestro aliento respiras, hacia los amarantos de esplendores, que en las colinas arden, hacia tiernas campanas de los lirios y grises heliotropos;
hacia llanos cubiertos de amapolas, que guardan tal aliento de sueño y tal sonrojo, que, al cruzarlas, los ángeles habrán de parecerte más blancos todavía; hacia el sesgo del río, de ajo silvestre orlado, donde te solazaste un día entero, hasta que tu sonrisa trocábase en devota y el rezo florecía; hacia la rosa oculta en el boscaje, que vertía sus gotas de rocío en tu sueño; y hacia aquellos asfódelos floridos donde tu paso hundiste. Tiramos de tu ropa y tu pelo alisamos; desfallecemos entre nuestras quejas y sufrimos, perdidas por los aires.
Ni la intimidad de tu frente clara como una fiesta ni la privanza de tu cuerpo, aún misterioso y tácito y de niña, ni la sucesión de tu vida situándose en palabras o acallamiento serán favor tan persuasivo de ideas como el mirar tu sueño implicado en la vigilia de mis ávidos brazos.
Virgen milagrosamente otra vez por la virtud absolutoria del sueño, quieta y resplandeciente como una dicha en la selección del recuerdo, me darás esa orilla de tu vida que tú misma no tienes, Arrojado a la quietud divisaré esa playa última de tu ser y te veré por vez primera quizás como Dios ha de verte, desbaratada la ficción del Tiempo sin el amor, sin mí.
Holy Sonnet VI: This Is My Play's Last Scene, Here Heavens Appoint by John Donne
This is my play's last scene, here heavens appoint My pilgrimage's last mile; and my race Idly, yet quickly run, hath this last pace, My span's last inch, my minute's latest point, And gluttonous death, will instantly unjoint My body and soul, and I shall sleep a space; But my ever-waking part shall see that face, Whose fear already shakes my every joint:
Then, as my soul, t' heaven her first seat, takes flight, And earth-born body in the earth shall dwell, So fall my sins that all may have their right (To where they're bred, and would press me) to hell. Impute me righteous, thus purged of evil, For thus I leave the world, the flesh, the devil.
Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of withering, of tarnishing. Anais Nin
Days of absence, sad and dreary, Clothed in sorrow's dark array, Days of absence, I am weary; She I love is far away. William Shakespeare
Let your mind start a journey thru a strange new world. Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before. Let your soul take you where you long to be... Close your eyes let your spirit start to soar, and you'll live as you've never lived before. Erich Fromm
In oneself lies the whole world and if you know how to look and learn, the door is there and the key is in your hand. Nobody on earth can give you either the key or the door to open, except yourself. Jiddu Krishnamurti
Music isn't just learning notes and playing them, You learn notes to play to the music of your soul. Katie Greenwood
Landscapes have a language of their own, expressing the soul of the things, lofty or humble, which constitute them, from the mighty peaks to the smallest of the tiny flowers hidden in the meadow's grass. Alexandria David-neel
It is difficult to realize how great a part of all that is cheerful and delightful in the recollections of our own life is associated with trees.
Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term art, I should call it "the Reproduction of what the senses perceive in nature through the veil of the mist
What is our innocence, what is our guilt? All are naked, none is safe. And whence is courage: the unanswered question, the resolute doubt, -- dumbly calling, deafly listening--that in misfortune, even death, encourages others and in its defeat, stirs
the soul to be strong? He sees deep and is glad, who accedes to mortality and in his imprisonment rises upon himself as the sea in a chasm, struggling to be free and unable to be, in its surrendering finds its continuing.
So he who strongly feels, behaves. The very bird, grown taller as he sings, steels his form straight up. Though he is captive, his mighty singing says, satisfaction is a lowly thing, how pure a thing is joy. This is mortality, this is eternity.
To love is not a passive thing. To love is active voice. When I love I do something, I function, I give. I do not love in order that I may be loved back again, but for the creative joy of loving. And every time I do so love I am freed, at least a little, by the outgoing of love, from enslavement to that most intolerable of master, myself.... Bernard Iddings Bell.
What does open us is sharing our vulnerabilities. Sometimes we see a couple who has done this difficult work over a lifetime. In the process, they have grown old together. We can sense the enormous comfort, the shared quality of ease between these people. It is beautiful, and very rare. Without this quality of openness and vulnerability, partners don't really know each other; they are one image living with another image.... Charlotte Joko Beck.
Do not think that love, in order to be genuine, has to be extraordinary. What we need is to love without getting tired. How does a lamp burn,if it is not by the continuous feeding of little drops of oil? When there is no oil, there is no light and the bridegroom will say: "I do not know you". Dear friends, what are our drops of oil in our lamps? They are the small things from every day life: the joy, the generosity,the little good things,the humility and the patience.A simple thought for someone else. Our way to be silent,to listen,to forgive, to speakand to act. That are the real drops of oil that make our lamps burn vividly our whole life. Mother Teresa
Be it human or animal, touch is a life-giving thing. Has anyone ever had a stroke or a heart attack while cozied up with a pet? I doubt it. Robert Brault
Why fly? Simple. I'm not happy unless there's some room between me and the ground. Richard Bach
I have been studying the traits and dispositions of the "lower animals" (so called) and contrasting them with the traits and dispositions of man. I find the result humiliating to me. MARK TWAIN, Letters from the Earth
What is this hole I feel inside Dark, dead, just cast aside Sometimes I feel it's filling up Full of hope a brimming cup But alas this warmth does last not long A constant reminder of past long gone
You are not worthy little one No happiness for you, you have not won These are the voices that pull me down a knowling look, a casting frown More strength from somewhere I must find, to piece together this confusing mind Am I reading the signals wrong, left or right, which one which one?
I can be good, honest, please Trust me I have growing leaves and through lifes seasons I will shed these grasping feelings full of dread A light has shone and pulled me in She's winning, she's winning..a spreading grin
My babe in arms, all soft and smiles keeping me warm for miles and miles For him I wish the World to keep My Proof, long after I'm asleep
The kind of spirituality I value is one in which you get great joy out of contributing to life, not just sitting and meditating, although meditation is certainly valuable. But from the meditation,from the resulting consciousness, I would like to see people in action creating the world that they want to live in. Marshall Rosenberg
Don't postpone joy until you have learned all of your lessons. Joy is your lesson. Alan Cohen
We as for long life, but 'tis deep life, or noble moments that signify. Let the measure of time be spiritual, not mechanical. Ralph Waldo Emerson
'Whenever I plunge my arm, like this, In a basin of water, I never miss The sweet sharp sense of a fugitive day Fetched back from its thickening shroud of gray. Hence the only prime And real love-rhyme That I know by heart, And that leaves no smart, Is the purl of a little valley fall About three spans wide and two spans tall Over a table of solid rock, And into a scoop of the self-same block; The purl of a runlet that never ceases In stir of kingdoms, in wars, in peaces; With a hollow boiling voice it speaks And has spoken since hills were turfless peaks.'
'And why gives this the only prime Idea to you of a real love-rhyme? And why does plunging your arm in a bowl Full of spring water, bring throbs to your soul?'
'Well, under the fall, in a crease of the stone, Though precisely where none ever has known, Jammed darkly, nothing to show how prized, And by now with its smoothness opalized, Is a grinking glass: For, down that pass My lover and I Walked under a sky Of blue with a leaf-wove awning of green, In the burn of August, to paint the scene, And we placed our basket of fruit and wine By the runlet's rim, where we sat to dine; And when we had drunk from the glass together, Arched by the oak-copse from the weather, I held the vessel to rinse in the fall, Where it slipped, and it sank, and was past recall, Though we stooped and plumbed the little abyss With long bared arms. There the glass still is.
And, as said, if I thrust my arm below Cold water in a basin or bowl, a throe From the past awakens a sense of that time, And the glass we used, and the cascade's rhyme. The basin seems the pool, and its edge The hard smooth face of the brook-side ledge, And the leafy pattern of china-ware The hanging plants that were bathing there.
'By night, by day, when it shines or lours, There lies intact that chalice of ours, And its presence adds to the rhyme of love Persistently sung by the fall above. No lip has touched it since his and mine In turns therefrom sipped lovers' wine.'
Once you realize that the road is the goal and that you are always on the road, not to reach a goal, but to enjoy its beauty and its wisdom, life ceases to be a task and becomes natural and simple, in itself an ecstasy.
Forget roadside crossings. Go nowhere with guns. Go elsewhere your own way,
lonely and wanting. Or stay and be early: next to deep woods
inhabit old orchards. All clearings promise. Sunrise is good,
and fog before sun. Expect nothing always; find your luck slowly.
Wait out the windfall. Take your good time to learn to read ferns;
make like a turtle: downhill toward slow water. Instructed by heron,
drink the pure silence. Be compassed by wind. If you quiver like aspen
trust your quick nature: let your ear teach you which way to listen.
You've come to assume protective color; now colors reform to
new shapes in your eye. You've learned by now to wait without waiting;
as if it were dusk look into light falling: in deep relief
things even out. Be careless of nothing. See what you see.
Every morning in Africa, a Gazelle wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning a Lion wakes up. It knows it must outrun the slowest Gazelle or it will starve to death. It doesn't matter whether you are a Lion or a Gazelle... when the sun comes up, you'd better be running. Anonymous
The great teachings unanimously emphasize that all the peace, wisdom, and joy in the universe are already within us; we don't have to gain, develop, or attain them. We're like a child standing in a beautiful park with his eyes shut tight. We don't need to imagine trees, flowers, deer, birds, and sky; we merely need to open our eyes and realize what is already here, who we really are. Bo Lozoff
Every now and again take a good look at something not made with hands --a mountain, a star, the turn of a stream. There will come to you wisdom and patience and solace and, above all, the assurance that you are not alone in the world. Sidney Lovett
A healthy mind has an easy breath.
Bring me then the plant that points to those bright Lucidites swirling up from the earth, And life itself exhaling that central breath! Bring me the sunflower crazed with the love of light Eugenio Montale
Ich kann den Blick nicht von euch wenden; Ich muß euch anschaun immerdar: Wie reicht ihr mit geschäft'gen Händen Dem Schiffer eure Habe dar! Ihr Männer, die ihr von dem Nacken Die Körbe langt, mit Brot beschwert, Das ihr aus deutschem Korn gebacken, Geröstet habt auf deutschem Herd;
Und ihr, im Schmuck der langen Zöpfe, Ihr Schwarzwaldmädchen, braun und schlank, Wie sorgsam stellt ihr Krüg' und Töpfe Auf der Schaluppe grüne Bank!
Das sind dieselben Töpf' und Krüge, Oft an der Heimat Born gefüllt! Wenn am Missouri alles schwiegen Sie malten euch der Heimat Bild:
Des Dorfes steingefaßte Quelle, Zu der ihr schöpfend euch gebückt, Des Herdes traute Feuerstelle, Das Wandgesims, das sie geschmückt
Bald zieren sie im fernen Westen Des leichten Bretterhauses Wand; Bald reicht sie müden braunen Gästen, Voll frischen Trunkes, eure Hand.
Es trinkt daraus der Tscherokese, Ermattet, von der Jagd bestaubt; Nicht mehr von deutscher Rebenlese Tragt ihr sie heim, mit Grün belaubt.
O sprecht! warum zogt ihr von dannen? Das Neckartal hat Wein und Korn; Der Schwarzwald steht voll finstrer Tannen, Im Spessart klingt des Älplers Horn.
Wie wird es in den fremden Wäldern Euch nach der Heimatberge Grün, Nach Deutschlands gelben Weizenfeldern, Nach seinen Rebenhügeln ziehn!
Wie wird das Bild der alten Tage Durch eure Träume glänzend wehn! Gleich einer stillen, frommen Sage Wird es euch vor der Seele stehn.
Der Bootsmann winkt! - Zieht hin in Frieden: Gott schütz' euch, Mann und Weib und Greis! Sei Freude eurer Brust beschieden, Und euren Feldern Reis und Mais!
Herz, mein Herz, warum so fröhlich, So voll Unruh und zerstreut, Als käm über Berge selig Schon die schöne Frühlingszeit? Weil ein liebes Mädchen wieder Herzlich an dein Herz sich drückt, Schaust du fröhlich auf und nieder, Erd und Himmel dich erquickt.
Und ich hab die Fenster offen, Neu zieh in die Welt hinein Altes Bangen, altes Hoffen! Frühling, Frühling soll es sein!
Still kann ich hier nicht mehr bleiben, Durch die Brust ein Singen irrt, Doch zu licht ist's mir zum Schreiben, Und ich bin so froh verwirrt.
Also schlendr' ich durch die Gassen, Menschen gehen her und hin, Weiß nicht, was ich tu und lasse, Nur, daß ich so glücklich bin.
Komm, Trost der Welt, du stille Nacht! Wie steigst du von den Bergen sacht, Die Lüfte alle schlafen, Ein Schiffer nur noch, wandermüd, Singt übers Meer sein Abendlied Zu Gottes Lob im Hafen.
Die Jahre wie die Wolken gehn Und lassen mich hier einsam stehn, Die Welt hat mich vergessen, Da tratst du wunderbar zu mir, Wenn ich beim Waldesrauschen hier Gedankenvoll gesessen.
O Trost der Welt, du stille Nacht! Der Tag hat mich so müd gemacht, Das weite Meer schon dunkelt, Laß ausruhn mich von Lust und Not, Bis daß das ewige Morgenrot Den stillen Wald durchfunkelt.
She is forever standing at our secret pond beneath our loving tree. Welcome late-spring breeze lifting summer dress and hat ever so slightly.
She is dropping a rose frozen forever in time it cascades from her hand. Around her, the pond, the cat-tails, the bird song, all captured deliciously.
She is smiling playfully as rose follows petals to rest amidst lily-pads. A buzz of bumblebee, breeze dancing leaves above, mid-morning sun seems to kiss her.
She laughs hearing her name turns with anticipation burned forever is the sight. Even as life continues - for that split second her beauty is immortalized.