A Quote by Osip Mandelstam

Perhaps my whisper was already born before my lips. — © Osip Mandelstam
Perhaps my whisper was already born before my lips.
Perhaps the whisper was born before lips, And the leaves in treelessness circled and flew, And those, to whom we impart our experience as bliss, Acquire their forms before we do
Lips move; lips touch; lips signal. Lips are on the outside for show, and on the most secret inside of your mouth. Lips frame words that lie. Lips frame a hole that wants to be filled.
Perhaps some people really are born unhappy. I surely hope not. Speaking for my sister and myself: We were born with the capacity and determination to be utterly happy all the time. Perhaps even in this we were freaks. Hi ho.
On a movie, it's always better to stay invisible as much as you can to keep things calm. I like to whisper to my cameraman, I like to whisper to my actors, and whoever else I've gotten to whisper to.
O naked flower of my lips, you lie! I await a thing unknown or perhaps, unaware of the mystery and your cries you give, O lips, the supreme tortured moans of a childhood groping among its reveries to sort out finally its cold precious stones.
He loves so wholly. It is his nature. He blinks, then tries to find the right response. "I-" he stumbles. "I'm so afraid, June. So afraid of what might happen to-" I put two fingers against his lips to hush him. "Fear makes you stronger," I whisper. Before I can stop myself, I put my hands on his face and press my mouth to his.
God puts his ear so closely down to your lips that he can hear your faintest whisper.
They linger near the back door, forehead to forehead and curved like statues as their lips whisper and brush together.
Human beings are born and begin their evolution through the great spiral of consciousness, moving from archaic to magic to mythic to rational to perhaps integral, and from there perhaps into genuinely transpersonal domains. But for every person that moves into integral or higher, dozens are born into the archaic.
Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you/ That you may be my poem/ I whisper with my lips close to your ear/ I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.
Between lips and lips there are cities of great ash and moist summit, drops of when and how, vague comings and goings: between lips and lips as along a shore of sand and glass the wind passes.
Who has not seen that feeling born of flame Crimson the cheek at mention of a name? The rapturous touch of some divine surpriseFlash deep suffusion of celestial dyes: When hands clasped hands, and lips to lips were pressed, And the heart's secret was at once confessed?
O singers, resinous and soft your songsAbove the sacred whisper of the pines,Give virgin lips to cornfield concubines,Bring dreams of Christ to dusky cane-lipped throngs.
To live is nothing more than to come here to die, to be what we were before being born, but with apprenticeship, experience, knowledge of cause, and perhaps with will.
Maybe you should get rid of me,” I whisper onto his lips. “Never,” he says, kissing me once softly. “You’re mine for as long as you breathe.
Most people die before they are fully born. Creativeness means to be born before one dies.
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