But it is not anything to be beautiful — unless one is loved — and then it is different! I feel much more beautiful now, since you think me pleasant to look at!
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Thelma
Marie Corelli 1 May 1855 – 21 April 1924) was a British novelist. She enjoyed a period of great literary success from the publication of her first novel in 1886 until World War I. Corelli's novels sold more copies than the combined sales of popular contem
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What are you thinking about? Your eyes shine so brightly — do you know you have beautiful eyes?
'What is terrible, my sweet one?' She sighed deeply. 'To have no more life of my own! It has all gone — to you! And yours has come to me! Is it not strange and almost sad? How your heart beats, poor boy! I can hear it throb, throb — so fast! — here, where I am resting my head.'
I cannot say it properly! There is no language for my heart! If I could tell you all I feel, you would think it foolish, I am sure, because if is all so wild and strange.
Mon Dieu! If I had but the gift of writing, I would conquer the world!
Chess is for those who intend to form republics. All the worry and calculation — all the moves of pawns, bishops, knights, castles, and queen, all to shelter the throne which is not worth protecting!
I will not speak of the suddenness of your love for my child, because I know, from my own past experience, that love is a rapid impulse — a flame ignited in a moment.
Love you? Ah, yes! More than my life!
Then came a touch — soft and sweet as a rose-leaf pressed against his lips — and for one moment he remembered nothing — he was caught up like Homer's Paris in a cloud of gold, and knew not which was earth or heaven.
His brain was in a wild whirl — the glitter of the stalactite cave turned to a gyrating wheel of jewel-work; there was nothing anymore — no universe, no existence — nothing but love, love, love, beating strung hammer-strokes through every fibre of his frame.
Is it not true that many people do hide their feelings, and pretend to be quite different to what they are?
Curses sometimes turn to blessings, father!
He loved her! The terrible, beautiful tempest of love had broken over his life at last; there was no escape from its thunderous passion and dazzling lightning glory.
He felt as though he were endowed with a thousand senses — each one keenly alive and sensitive to the smallest touch, and there was a pulsation in his blood that was new and beyond his control — a something that beat wildly in his heart at the sound of Thelma's voice or the passing flutter of the wh…
He understood at last what poets meant by their melodious musings, woven into golden threads of song — he seemed to have grasped some hitherto unguessed secret of his being — a secret that filled him with as much strange pain as pleasure.
Who shall unravel the mystery of a woman's weeping? Who shall declare whether it is pain or a relief to the over-charged heart? . . . When love's burning finger touches the pulse, and marks its slow or rapid beatings. And Thelma wept, as many of her sex weep, without knowing why, save that all sudde…
'It is not my fault if the people are foolish,' she said coldly; 'I have never done harm to anyone that I know of.'
To see a beautiful elf with golden wings come fluttering, fluttering gently down from the sky, — you open your arms to catch her — so . . . and just as you think you have her, she leans only a little bit on one side and falls, not into your heart — no! — into the heart of someone else! That is grief…
Everything in every way has been begun and completed and then forgotten over and over, in this world, — to be begun and completed and forgotten again, and so on to the end of the chapter. No one nation is better than another in this respect, — there is, there can be nothing new.
And shall I ruffle the sweet leaves; shall I crush the tender petals? Or shall I simply transform them, from pansies into roses, — from the dream of love, — into love itself?