86 Quotes by Edmond Rostand

Impossible, Monsieur ; mon sang se coaguleEn pensant qu’on y peut changer une virgule.

A kiss is a secret which takes the lips for the ear.

Tu marcheras, j'irai dans l'ombre à ton côté : je serai ton esprit, tu seras ma beauté.

I know that in the end you'll overwhelm me, but I'll still fight you as long as there's a breath in my body... Yes, you've robbed me of everything: the laurels of glory, the roses of love! But there's one thing you can't take away from me. When I go to meet God this evening, and doff my hat before the lofty gates, my salute will sweep the blue threshold of heaven, because I'll still have one thing intact, without a stain, something that I'll take with me in spite of you: My white plume.

My heart to yours sends but one cry:If kisses fast could fleeBy letter, then with your sweet lipsMy letters read should be!

A kiss, when all is told, what is it? An oath taken a little closer, a promise more exact. A wish that longs to be confirmed, a rosy circle drawn around the verb 'to love'. A kiss is a secret which takes the lips for the ear, a moment of infinity humming like a bee, a communion tasting of flowers, a way of breathing in a little of the heart and tasting a little of the soul with the edge of the lips!

A kiss! When all is said, what is a kiss? An oath of allegiance taken in closer proximity, a promise more precise, a seal on a confession, a rose-red dot upon the letter i in loving; a secret which elects the mouth for ear; an instant of eternity murmuring like a bee; balmy communion with a flavor of flowers; a fashion of inhaling each other's hearts, and of tasting, on the brink of the lips, each other's soul!

My soul, be satisfied with flowers,With fruit, with weeds even; but gather themIn the one garden you may call your own.

Voyez-vous, lorsqu'on a trop réussi sa vie,On sent, -- n'ayant rien fait mon Dieu de vraiment mal! --Mille petits dégoûts de soi, dont le totalNe fait pas un remords, mais une gêne obscure ;Et les manteaux de duc traînent dans leur fourrure,Pendant que des grandeurs on monte les degrés,Un bruit d'illusions sèches et de regrets,Comme, quand vous montez lentement vers ces portes,Votre robe de deuil traîne des feuilles mortes.