“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.”
― William Wordsworth

I can relate
 

Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.
Helen Keller

A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out.
Walter Winchell

Night and Day, Day and Night
 

"The business of life is the acquisition of memories. In the end, that's all there is."

Mr Carson from Downton Abbey

i've developed a tolerance for happy endings

ace

“One day you will take my heart completely and make it more fiery than a dragon. Your eyelashes will write on my heart the poem that could never come from the pen of a poet.”
― Rumi

“Man struggles to find life outside himself,
unaware that the life he is seeking is within him.”
― Khalil Gibran

“You must write every single day of your life...
You must lurk in libraries and
climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books
like perfumes and wear books like hats
upon your crazy heads...
may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days.
And out of that love, remake a world.”
― Ray Bradbury

“We need not to be let alone.
We need to be really bothered once in a while.
How long is it since you were really bothered?
About something important,
about something real?”
― Ray Bradbury

“A book is a loaded gun.”
― Ray Bradbury

To a Stranger. by Walt Whitman

PASSING stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me, as of a dream,)

I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl with me,

I ate with you, and slept with you—your body has become not yours only,
nor left my body mine only,

You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass—you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,

I am not to speak to you—I am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone,

I am to wait—I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

Music, When Soft Voices Die by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory --
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

Remembrance Day
 

Dulce et Decorum Est
By Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Let my soul smile through my heart and my heart smile through my eyes, that I may scatter rich smiles in sad hearts.
-Paramahansa Yogananda