"Still Loving You" – 13472 rezultate
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subiectivisme
articole și eseuri despre întâmplări, fapte, evenimente; comentate în cel mai pur stil subiectiv de Florin Hălălău
de Florin Hălălău
Radu Contes
The beginning of my childhood was profoundly marked by one of my grandfather’s passions – literature. For him reading, living, the writings of so many did not seem to be enough, so he began writing his own stories that still echo in my memory and in my heart. I remember that one day I went to him and asked “What are you writing about?”. Looking at me for only a second and returning his eyes at the ink stained notebook he answered: “My life”. Regretful, I confess that that was the last dialogue we had. After that I began reading, reading everything he was writing. Two years after his death, I had met someone who changed everything. I stopped reading and began writing myself. It was such a new feeling. It seemed to be never ending. It still feels. Since the first time, you may think I am exaggerating, but it really was the first time I saw her when I felt this sudden urge of writing. Words like “Thank you” seem meaningless compared to the things that you have done for me.
2 poezii, 0 proze
MSMellin de Saint-Gelais
Mellin de Saint-Gelais (1490-1558), poet francez renascentist. *** Mellin de Saint-Gelais (or Melin de Saint-Gelays or Sainct-Gelais; c. 1491 – October, 1558) was a French poet of the Renaissance and Poet Laureate of Francis I of France. He was born at Angoulême, most likely the natural son of Jean de Saint-Gelais, marquis de Montlieu, a member of the Angoumois gentry. His forename was the French-Norman malapropism of the British wizard Merlin featured in Arthurian legends. He was close to his uncle Octavien de Saint-Gelais (1466-1502), bishop of Angoulême since 1494, himself a poet who had translated the Aeneid into French. Mellin, who had studied at Bologna and Padua, had the reputation of being doctor, astrologer and musician as well as poet. He returned to France around 1523, and soon gained favour at the court of the art-loving Valois ruler Francis I by his skill in light verse. He was made almoner to the Dauphin, abbot of Reclus in the diocese of Troyes and librarian...
1 poezii, 0 proze
lara sam
Still thinking of coming back
2 poezii, 0 proze
GKGabriel J. Khazini
Broken glass still echoes in his heart as broken mirrors, Heart that once danced love and fear... And thus all puppets sing the song that hurt the puppeteer
2 poezii, 0 proze
ionutz
born....10.03.1900-toamna.............still breathing.....
7 poezii, 0 proze
OIOvidiu Mihai Ionel
Born again. Still alive. Painter, dancer, writer.
88 poezii, 0 proze
SNSara Nagy
mi-au expirat cei 19 ani de acasa. datele mele personale still pending ( schimbarea domiciliului unitate de invatamant)
36 poezii, 0 proze
ANandra n
"it looks i've reached the crossroad.. remains of what i am still still waiting on the sidewalk to fill this peaceful day the burden of a choice my past dissolved..erased would you belive my world?"
1 poezii, 0 proze
CFCarmen Fenesan
"Well. I'll tell you somethin' about your famous future. Every day I wake up, it's still the present. The same grimy, boring present. I don't think this future thing exists." (Titan AE)
19 poezii, 0 proze
James Joyce
Joyce was born in Dublin, where his father was a rates collector. He was educated at a Jesuit school and University College, Dublin where he studied philosophy and language. When he was still an undergraduate, in 1900, his long review of Ibsen’s last play was published in the Fortnightly Review. At this time he also began writing his poems which were later collected in Chamber Music, published in 1907. In 1902 Joyce left Dublin for Paris, but returned the following year as his mother was dying. From 1904 he lived with Nora Barnacle, whom he married in 1931 (the year his father died), a son was born in 1905, and a daughter in 1918. Their home from 1905 to 1915 was Trieste, where Joyce taught English at the Berlitz school. In 1909 and 1912 he made his final trips to Ireland, attempting to arrange the publication of his first book Dubliners, which finally appeared in England in 1914. It was during this time that he was contacted by Ezra Pound, a leading champion of modernist writers who...
0 poezii, 0 proze
Still Loving You
de Alexandra Alb Tătar
când raze de soare se vor răsfira printre crengi de nuc îți vei aminti cum adormeam îmbrățișați pe trunchiul lui și-n pulsul acela se umplea de-atâta sevă, încât devenea baobab cu rădăcini încolăcite...
Intre noi
de Florin DeRoxas
poate ca e tarziu pentru tot, sau poate nu, poate ca o stiu eu, poate o stii si tu, oricum si-n orice limba de circulatie voi spune-o, je t\'aime encore and I\'m still loving you. unele nopti par mai...
To Silvia
de Giacomo Leopardi
Silvia, do you remember the moments, in your mortal life, when beauty still shone in your sidelong, laughing eyes, and you, light and thoughtful, went beyond girlhood’s limits? The quiet rooms and...
Christmas Dream
de Daniela Noghiu
They say Christmas Is the magic time When all the dreams come true But What do you do When Santa The merry old good man Always forgets about you? My Christmas dream? Ever wished Never...
portret cu Giocondă
de bianca marcovici
o pasăre dezarticulată prea puține lucruri seamănă cu realitatea (ne)virtuală, nici măcar muzica sufletului! tonul joacă rolul principal, sterilitatea imaginilor care cumulează în van vârsta...
Two Look at Two
de Robert Frost
Love and forgetting might have carried them A little further up the mountain side With night so near, but not much further up. They must have halted soon in any case With thoughts of a path back, how...
Sonnet LV
de William Shakespeare
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone besmear\'d with sluttish time. When wasteful...
Sonnet XVI
de William Shakespeare
But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? And fortify yourself in your decay With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? Now stand you on the top of happy...
BLUE
de cristina boruga
One day a butterfly set on my nose and sais: I want you to speak about blue as if this is the last time a minute has 60 seconds. Well, I know blue is the colour of my coffee cup in the morning. I...