Motivational Quotes

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting.

You talk too much, you laugh too loud, that's the price of love.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.

People who are sensible about love are incapable of it.

Go to the truth beyond the mind. Love is the bridge.

Honesty is the only way with anyone, when you'll be so close as to be living inside each other's skins.

We will invent new lullabies, new songs, new acts of love, we will cry over things we used to laugh and our new wisdom will bring tears to eyes of gentle creatures from other planets who were afraid of us till then and in the end a summer with wild winds and new friends will be.

Who travels for love finds a thousand miles not longer than one.

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

Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.

People love others not for who they are, but for how they make them feel.

Love matches are made by people who are content, for a month of honey, to condemn themselves to a life of vinegar.

Love has no errors, for all errors are the want for love.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments: love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds.

However it is debased or misinterpreted, love is a redemptive feature. To focus on one individual so that their desires become superior to yours is a very cleansing experience.

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.

The greatest weakness of most humans is their hesitancy to tell others how much they love them while they're still alive.

I try to give to the poor people for love what the rich could get for money. No, I wouldn't touch a leper for a thousand pounds; yet I willingly cure him for the love of God.

I would rather live and love where death is king than have eternal life where love is not.

In this life we cannot do great things. We can only do small things with great love

Love is the strange bewilderment that overtakes one person on account of another person.

In love, as in gluttony, pleasure is a matter of the utmost precision.

Do not think that love in order to be genuine has to be extraordinary. What we need is to love without getting tired. Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies.

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

Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.

O, how this spring of love resembleth the uncertain glory of an April day!

But love is blind and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit; For if they could, Cupid himself would blush To see me thus transformed to a boy.

This world is not for aye, nor'tis not strange That even our loves should with our fortunes change. For'tis a question left us yet to prove, Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love.

But I always think that the best way to know God is to love many things.

Real love stories never have endings.

When once estrangement has arisen between those who truly love each other, everything seems to widen the breach.

People who do not love themselves can adore others, because adoration is making someone else big and ourselves small. They can desire others, because desire comes out of a sense of inner incompleteness, which demands to be filled. But they can not love others, because love is an affirmation of the living growing being in all of us. If you don't have it, you can't give it.

Love is begun by time; and that I see in passages of proof, time qualifies the spark and fire of it. There lives within the very flame of love a kind of wick or snuff that will abate it.

Love, love, love -- all the wretched cant of it, masking egotism, lust, masochism, fantasy under a mythology of sentimental postures, a welter of self-induced miseries and joys, blinding and masking the essential personalities in the frozen gestures of courtship, in the kissing and the dating and the desire, the compliments and the quarrels which vivify its barrenness.

Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

In every loving woman there is a priestess of the past -- a pious guardian of some affection, of which the object has disappeared.

Love is like quicksilver in the hand. Leave the fingers open and it stays. Clutch is, and it darts away.

I love Mickey Mouse more than any woman I have ever known.

One would always want to think of oneself as being on the side of love, ready to recognize it and wish it well --but, when confronted with it in others, one so often resented it, questioned its true nature, secretly dismissed the particular instance as folly or promiscuity. Was it merely jealousy, or a reluctance to admit so noble and enviable a sentiment in anyone but oneself?

No three words have greater power than I Love You.

If we love our country, we should also love our countrymen.

After the verb To Love...To Help is the most beautiful verb in the world.

Love begins at home, and it is not how much we do... but how much love we put in that action.

To love one person with a private love is poor and miserable: to love all is glorious.

I would not miss your face, your neck, your hands, your limbs, your bosom and certain other of your charms. Indeed, not to become boring by naming them all, I could do without you, Chloe, altogether.

To be able to say how much love, is love but little.

It has ever been since time began, and ever will be, till time lose breath, that love is a mood --no more --to man, and love to a woman is life or death.

Busy old fool, unruly Sun, why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?

Love, Arthur, is a poodle's chance of attaining the infinite, and personally I have my pride.

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