How many times do I love, again? Tell me how many beads there are In a silver chain Of evening rain Unravelled from the trembling main And threading the eye of a yellow star:- So many times do I love again.
Men always want to be a woman's first love - women like to be a man's last romance.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
This is love: to fly toward a secret sky
so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
A very small degree of hope is sufficient to cause the birth of love.
I love thee - I love thee, 'Tis all that I can say, It is my vision in the night, My dreaming in the day.
Love sucks. Sometimes it feels good. Sometimes it's just another way to bleed.
Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.
We don't believe in rheumatism and true love until after the first attack.
When you're in love you never really know whether your elation comes from the qualities of the one you love, or if it attributes them to her; whether the light which surrounds her like a halo comes from you, from her, or from the meeting of your sparks.
As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.
Love is the silent saying and saying of a single name.
Time is: Too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear.
This is love: to fly toward a secret sky, to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment. First to let go of life. Finally, to take a step without feet.
Trip over love, you can get up. Fall in love and you fall forever. Anyone can catch your eye, but it takes someone special to catch your heart. Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
Sympathy constitutes friendship; but in love there is a sort of antipathy, or opposing passion. Each strives to be the other, and both together make up one whole.
Take away love and our earth is a tomb.
I never knew how to worship until I knew how to love.
I'm dating a woman now who, evidently, is unaware of it.
To know the pain of too much tenderness
I thought of the words of the Renaissance philosopher Michel de Montaigne. "If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he, and I was I.
It's better to have loved and lost than to have to do forty pounds of laundry a week.
It is astonishing how little one feels alone when one loves.
I love you. I am who I am because of you. You are every reason, every hope, and every dream I've ever had, and no matter what happens to us in the future, everyday we are together is the greatest day of my life. I will always be yours.
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