Quotes
Quotes about Love
In literature as in love we are astounded by what is chosen by others.
I hold it true,what'er befall;I feel it, when I sorrow most;'Tis better to have loved and lostThan never to have loved at all. - In Memoriam.
Nothing but blackness aboveAnd nothing that moves but the cars...God, if you wish for our love,Fling us a handful of stars! - Caliban in the Coal Mines.
I am never long, even in the society of her I love, without yearning for the company of my lamp and my library.
Religion is love; in no case is it logic.
Little do men perceive what solitude is, and how far it extendeth. For a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love.
Children love to be alone because alone is where they know themselves, and where they dream. - The Man in the Water, 1994.
He never is alone that is accompanied with noble thoughts. - Love's Cure, 1647.
One can acquire everything in solitude except character. - On Love, 1822.
There is none more lonely than the man who loves only himself.
'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have lost at all.
It's love, it's love that makes the world go round.
Oh, tell me whence Love cometh! Love comes uncall'd, unsent. Oh, tell me where Love goeth! That was not Love that went.
When love's well-timed 'tis not a fault of love; The strong, the brave, the virtuous, and the wise, Sink in the soft captivity together.
When love once pleads admission to our hearts, (In spite of all the virtue we can boast), The woman that deliberates is lost.
Mysterious love, uncertain treasure, Hast thou more of pain or pleasure! . . . . Endless torments dwell above thee: Yet who would live, and live without thee!
For 'tis impossible Hate to return with love. [It., Che amar chi t'odia, ell'e impossibil cosa.]
Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get, it's what you are expected to give--which is everything.
Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain.
One sweet, sad secret holds my heart in thrall; A mighty love within my breast has grown, Unseen, unspoken, and of no one known; And of my sweet, who gave it, least of all. [Fr., Ma vie a son secret, mon ame a son mystere: Un amour eternel en un moment concu. La mal est sans remede, aussi j'ai du le taire, Et elle qui l'a fait n'en a jamais rien su.]
Ask not of me, love, what is love? Ask what is good of God above; Ask of the great sum what is light; Ask what is darkness of the night; Ask sin of what may be forgiven; Ask what is happiness of heaven; Ask what is folly of the crowd; Ask what is fashion of the shroud; Ask what is sweetness of thy kiss; Ask of thyself what beauty is.
I cannot love as I have loved, And yet I know not why; It is the one great woe of life To feel all feeling die.
Love spends his all, and still hath store.
The sweetest joy, the wildest woe is love.
Could I love less, I should be happier now.
