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E Quotes

Browse famous quotes beginning with E. This page is a child index of the full Popular Quotes A-Z directory.

All E Quotes

“Eyes are at rest, the stars are setting. Hushed are the stirrings of birds in their nests, Of monsters in the ocean. You are the Just who knows no change, The Balance that can never swerve, The Eternal which never passes away. The doors of Kings are bolted now and guarded by soldiers. Your Door is open to all who call upon You. Each love is now alone with his beloved. And I am alone with You.”

“Eyes are bold as lions,--roving, running, leaping, here and there, far and near. They speak all languages. They wait for no introduction; they are no Englishmen; ask no leave of age or rank; they respect neither property nor riches, neither learning nor power, nor virtue, nor sex, but intrude, and come again, and go through and through you in a moment of time. What inundation of life and thought is discharged from one soul into another through them!”

“Eyes blazing with desire, he said, "Tell me. Tell me what you want." "You know what I want." "Say it." "I want you to make love to me. Here, now." He growled low in his throat as he lowered her to the rug in front of the hearth. His hands made short work of getting rid of her clothing and then his own. Soft sounds of delight rose in her throat as she ran her hands over him. In spite of the scars that marred his chest, he was very beautiful, each muscle sharply defined as though sculpted by an artist's hand. His skin was cool beneath her questing fingertips as she explored the width of his shoulders, his six-pack abs, the long, ridged scar that ran the length of his back.”

“Eyes closed, she imagined the butterflies soaring over the petals, riding the tail of the breeze. She imagined a fairy leading their dance, her wings shimmering in the sun. Then one of the butterflies seemed to come alive in her mind, like a character on the silver screen. Twirling in the sunlight that spilled through the window. She was pale blue, laced with gold, and Libby could see her, inside and out, every detail on her slender body, every color on her wardrobe of wings. Libby released her legs and sprung down onto the rug on her floor. Under her bed was a box with her old sketchbook and colored pencils. She hadn't wanted to draw in a long time. She'd only wanted to be among the flowers and butterflies. But if she couldn't be with her friends, perhaps she could entertain them in her room. The sketchbook in hand, she hopped back on the bed and began drawing the blue butterfly who'd twirled in the lamplight, but her butterfly looked so dull on the paper. Nothing like the butterfly she'd seen moments before. She- Libby Doyle- was a creator, and her creation begged her for more. Rushing to the bathroom, she filled a paper cup with water. In her parents' bedroom were tubes of special paint. And a brush. Mummy once told her she'd kept the paints to remember her father- Libby's granddad- but what better way to remember him than to use his paints to birth another life? 'Life.' She wanted to breathe light and color and life into her friends.”

“Eyes on me, Angel,” he commanded, closing the space between us, his breath brushing across my lips. “I’m going to know everything about you—your fears, your dreams, your past, the best and the worst. I want to be the one who stands by you when you’re at your lowest and lifts you up higher at your best. I’ll be the one who fights off anyone or anything that tries to hurt you. You’re mine now, and I will know every part of you, even your darkest origins. Nothing will get in my way. Nothing.”

“Eyes, opening from the darkness of desire, eyes that dimmed the breaking east. What was their languid grace but the softness of chambering? And what was their shimmer but the shimmer of the scum that mantled the cesspool of the court of a slobbering Stuart. And he tasted in the language of memory ambered wines, dying fallings of sweet airs, the proud pavan: and saw with the eyes of memory kind gentlewomen in Covent Garden wooing from their balconies with sucking mouths and the pox fouled wenches of the taverns and young wives that, gaily yielding to their ravishers, clipped and clipped again.”

Author:James Joyce