Motivational Quotes

When a person is uncertain in love, there is nothing easier than for him to put one and one together and to make three out of them.

LOVE, the feeling, is the fruit of LOVE, the verb.

Love is what we are born with. Fear is what we learn. The spiritual journey is the unlearning of fear and prejudices and the acceptance of love back in our hearts. Love is the essential reality and our purpose on earth. To be consciously aware of it, to experience love in ourselves and others, is the meaning of life. Meaning does not lie in things. Meaning lies in us.

It is wrong to think that love comes from long companionship and persevering courtship. Love is the offspring of spiritual affinity and unless that affinity is created in a moment, it will not be created for years or even generations.

There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.

I love a hand that meets my own with a grasp that causes some sensation.

Perhaps the old monks were right when they tried to root love out; perhaps the poets are right when they try to water it. It is a blood-red flower, with the color of sin; but there is always the scent of a god about it.

In a separation it is the one who is not really in loved who says the more tender things.

God proved His love on the Cross. When Christ hung, and bled, and died, it was God saying to the world, I love you.

Love is the victim's response to the rapist.

The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved, loved for ourselves, or rather loved in spite of ourselves.

Love is the beauty of the soul.

'Tis said of love that it sometimes goes, sometimes flies; runs with one, walks gravely with another; turns a third into ice, and sets a fourth in a flame: it wounds one, another it kills: like lightning it begins and ends in the same moment: it makes that fort yield at night which it besieged but in the morning; for there is no force able to resist it.

Love is a friendship set to music.

Things base and vile, holding no quantity, love can transpose to form and dignity.

Love consists not in feeling great things but in having great detachment and in suffering for the Beloved.

Love, you are eternal like springtime.

To be among people one loves, that's sufficient; to dream, to speak to them, to be silent among them, to think of indifferent things; but among them, everything is equal.

Love ceases to be a pleasure, when it ceases to be a secret.

Mistresses are like books; if you pore upon them too much, they doze you and make you unfit for company; but if used discreetly, you are the fitter for conversation by em.

Only the really plain people know about love --the very fascinating ones try so hard to create an impression that they very soon exhaust their talents.

Everything comes to us from others. To Be is to belong to someone.

Subdue your passion or it will subdue you.

Love is the affinity which links and draws together the elements of the world... Love, in fact, is the agent of universal synthesis.

It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know that it has begun.

Love is a perky elf dancing a merry little jig and then suddenly he turns on you with a miniature machine gun.

To love is to receive a glimpse of heaven.

We can recognize the dawn and the decline of love by the uneasiness we feel when alone together.

There's a lot to be said for self-delusionment when it comes to matters of the heart.

A lover, when he is admitted to cards, ought to be solemnly silent, and observe the motions of his mistress. He must laugh when she laughs, sigh when she sighs. In short, he should be the shadow of her mind. A lady, in the presence of her lover, should never want a looking-glass; as a beau, in the presence of his looking-glass, never wants a mistress.

Where both deliberate, the love is slight: Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?

We are nearer loving those who hate us than those who love us more than we wish.

To an ordinary human being, love means nothing if it does not mean loving some people more than others.

At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.

I believe love is primarily a choice and only sometimes a feeling. If you want to feel love, choose to love and be patient.

Love never reasons, but profusely gives; it gives like a thoughtless prodigal its all, and then trembles least it has done to little.

There is a voice inside which speaks and says: This is the real me!

Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth.

Love is a ocean of emotions entirely surrounded by expenses.

I do not think that what is called Love at first sight is so great an absurdity as it is sometimes imagined to be. We generally make up our minds beforehand to the sort of person we should like, grave or gay, black, brown, or fair; with golden tresses or raven locks; -- and when we meet with a complete example of the qualities we admire, the bargain is soon struck.

Love is the joy of the good, the wonder of the wise, the amazement of the Gods.

Love is the irresistible desire to be desired irresistibly.

A man in love mistakes a pimple for a dimple.

Love is what you've been through with somebody.

I argue thee that love is life. And life hath immortality.

A man in love is like a clipped coupon -- it's time to cash in.

And this I pray, that your love may abound still more and more in real knowledge and all discernment. [Philippians 1:9]

Saddest Poem

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms. I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

When a man and a woman have an overwhelming passion for each other, it seems to me, in spite of such obstacles dividing them as parents or husband, that they belong to each other in the name of Nature, and are lovers by Divine right, in spite of human convention or the laws.

The way to a woman's heart is through your wallet.

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