Stolen Waters (1862)
Three Sunsets and Other Poems (1898)
Reported in Josiah Hotchkiss Gilbert, Dictionary of Burning Words of Brilliant Writers (1895), p. 213.
Major Richard Sharpe (describing his murdered wife, Teresa Moreno) p. 339
Sharpe (Novel Series), Sharpe's Enemy (1984)
“I once loved a woman, a child I am told
I gave her my heart but she wanted my soul.”
Song lyrics, The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan (1963), Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
Alboine, Act 1, Scene 1.
Rosamund, Queen of the Lombards (1899)
Not Fade Away, written by Buddy Holly and Norman Petty
Song lyrics, The "Chirping" Crickets (1957)
If Tomorrow Never Comes, written by G. Brooks and Kent Blazy.
Song lyrics, Garth Brooks (1989)
Nītiśataka 2
Variant translation from K.M. Joglekar:
That woman about whom I constantly meditate has no affection for me; she, however, yearns after another who is attached to someone else; while a certain woman pines away for me. Fie on her, on him, on the God of Love, on that woman, and on myself.
Śatakatraya
translation from original Dutch: Fons Heijnsbroek
(original Dutch: citaat van Hendrik Willem Mesdag, in het Nederlands:) Maanden van mijn leven heb ik haar aangestaard, met nooit verflauwende liefde en nooit verminderde belangstelling.
Quote of Mesdag, as cited by J. Poort in Artiste peintre à La Haye, Wassenaar 1981, p. 66
undated quotes
“The garlands fade, the vows are worn away;
So dies her love, and so my hopes decay.”
Autumn, line 70.
Pastorals (1709)
The Never-Ending Wrong (1977)
Context: I remember small, slender Mrs. Sacco with her fine copper-colored hair and dark brown, soft, dazed eyes moving from face to face but still smiling uncertainly, surrounded in our offices by women pitying and cuddling her, sympathetic with her as if she were a pretty little girl; they spoke to her as if she were five years old or did not understand — this Italian peasant wife who, for seven long years, had shown moral stamina and emotional stability enough to furnish half a dozen women amply. I was humiliated for them, for their apparent insensibility. But I was mistaken in my anxiety — their wish to help, to show her their concern, was real, their feelings were true and lasting, no matter how awkwardly expressed; their love and tenderness and wish to help were from the heart. All through those last days in Boston, those strangely innocent women enlisted their altar societies, their card clubs their literary round tables, their music circles and their various charities in the campaign to save Sacco and Vanzetti. On their rounds, they came now and then to the office of my outfit in their smart thin frocks, stylish hats, and their indefinable air of eager sweetness and light, bringing money they had collected in the endless, wittily devious ways of women's organizations. They would talk among themselves and to her about how they felt, with tears in their eyes, promising to come again soon with more help. They were known as "sob sisters" by the cynics and the hangers-on of the committee I belonged to who took their money and described their activities as "sentimental orgies," of course with sexual overtones, and they jeered at "bourgeois morality." "Morality" was a word along with "charitable" and "humanitarian" and "liberal," all, at one time, in the odor of sanctity but now despoiled and rotting in the gutter where suddenly it seemed they belonged. I found myself on the side of the women; I resented the nasty things said about them by these self-appointed world reformers and I thought again, as I had more than once in Mexico, that yes, the world was a frightening enough place as it was, but think what a hell it would be if such people really got the power to do the things they planned.
