Love is a flower you got to let it grow.
Love is a fire. It burns everyone. It disfigures everyone. It is the world’s excuse for being ugly.
Love in this part of the world is no sinecure.
Love in a hut, with water and a crust, is – Love, forgive us! – cinders, ashes, dust; love in a palace is perhaps at last more grievous torment than a hermit’s fast.
Love does not alter the beloved, it alters itself.
Love (understood as the desire of good for another) is in fact so unnatural a phenomenon that it can scarcely repeat itself, the soul being unable to become virgin again and not having energy enough to cast itself out again into the ocean of another’s soul.
Love — thou are deep — I cannot cross thee — But, were there Two Instead of One — Rower, and Yacht — some sovereign Summer — Who knows — but we’d reach the Sun?
Love — is anterior to Life — Posterior — to Death — Initial of Creation, and The Exponent of Earth —
Love – what is love? A great and aching heart; Wrung hands; and silence; and a long despair.
Looking back now, if I were to point to one outstanding factor in my life, it would be my irrepressible vitality and hunger for great literary and artistic loves.[Also known as:]Looking back over a lifetime, you see that love was the answer to everything.
Limitless undying love, which shines around me like a million suns, it calls me on and on across the universe.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.