Motivational Quotes

People are such great mysteries. Just when we think we have understood them, a wonderful new aspect shows in them.

We don't always get to choose what we love.

Above the cloud with its shadow is the star with its light. Above all things reverence thyself.

For where there is true love, a man is neither out of measure lifted up by prosperity, nor cast down by mishap; whether you give or take away from him, so long as he keeps his beloved, he has a spring of inward peace. Thus, even though thy outward man grieve, or weep downright, that may well be borne, if only thy inner man remain at peace, perfectly content with the will of God.

Every man loves what he is good at.

The story of a love is not important -- what is important is that one is capable of love. It is perhaps the only glimpse we are permitted of eternity.

You can't show love to someone at the expense of someone else who loves you.

But miserable most, to love unloved? This you should pity rather than despise.

Love the whole world as a mother lovers her only child.

Do all things with love.

Love is not altogether a delirium, yet it has many points in common therewith.

Love is made by two people, in different kinds of solitude. It can be in a crowd, but in an oblivious crowd.

Love is a serious mental disease.

If they love they know not why, they hate upon no better ground, they hate upon no better a ground.

Love was as subtly caught, as a disease; But being got it is a treasure sweet, which to defend is harder than to get: And ought not be profaned on either part, for though 'Tis got by chance,'Tis kept by art.

Love shall be our token; love be yours and love be mine.

Once you have learned to love, You will have learned to live.

Love isn't a decision. It's a feeling. If we could decide who we loved, it would be much simpler, but much less magical.

Many will detest you if you spend all your love on yourself.

Love is an ocean of emotions entirely surrounded by expenses.

The way is not in the sky. The way is in the heart.

Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.

I donÆt think anyone can DO anything that would make him worthy of love. Love is a gift and cannot be earned. It can only be given.

What the world really needs is more love and less paper work.

Think about a woman. Doesn't know you're thinking about her. Doesn't care you're thinking about her. Makes you think about her even more.

Oh, Jacques, we're used to each other, we're a pair of captive hawks caught in the same cage, and so we've grown used to each other. That's what passes for love at this dim, shadowy end of the Camino Real.

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear: That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming The owner's tongue doth publish every where.

Know that you are your greatest enemy, but also your greatest friend.

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.

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

Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

Lovers should also have their days off.

A woman who could always love would never grow old; and the love of mother and wife would often give or preserve many charms if it were not too often combined with parental and conjugal anger. There remains in the face of women who are naturally serene and peaceful, and of those rendered so by religion, an after-spring, and later an after-summer, the reflex of their most beautiful bloom.

All love is sweet, Given or returned. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever. They who inspire is most are fortunate, As I am now: but those who feel it most Are happier still.

Love is or it ain't. Thin love ain't love at all.

Whenever you are confronted with an opponent. Conquer him with love.

Passion is seldom the end of any story, for it cannot long endure if it is not soon supplemented with true affection and mutual respect.

One's first love is always perfect until one meets one's second love.

Love is not a matter of counting the years -- it's making the years count.

The chemist who can extract from his heart's elements, compassion, respect, longing, patience, regret, surprise, and forgiveness and compound them into one can create that atom which is called love.

Parrots, tortoises and redwoods live a longer life than men do; Men a longer life than dogs do; Dogs a longer life than love does.

Such is the inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to suspicion, however unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from the object of its interest.

Today I begin to understand what love must be, if it exists. When we are parted, we each feel the lack of the other half of ourselves. We are incomplete like a book in two volumes of which the first has been lost. That is what I imagine love to be: incompleteness in absence.

Who is wise in love, love most, say least.

We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love, never so forlornly unhappy as when we have lost our love object or its love.

The sweetest joy, the wildest woe is love.

Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.

A bizarre sensation pervades a relationship of pretense. No truth seems true. A simple morning's greeting and response appear loaded with innuendo and fraught with implications. Each nicety becomes more sterile and each withdrawal more permanent.

Never try to define love. Once defined love is confined. Once confined -- It dies.

Love works a different way in different minds, the fool it enlightens and the wise it blinds.

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