Motivational Quotes

Love is a spendthrift, leaves it arithmetic at home, is always in the red.

To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.

Love and war are the same thing, and stratagems and policy are as allowable in the one as in the other.

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.

If you could only love enough, you could be the most powerful person in the world.

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

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.

If we discovered we only had five minutes left to say all we wanted to say, every telephone booth would be occupied by people telling other people that they loved them.

One does not fall in love; one grows into love, and love grows in him.

Lovers should also have their days off.

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.

Self-love is the instrument of our preservation.

It is easier to keep half a dozen lovers guessing than to keep one lover after he has stopped guessing.

We only love truly once. It is the first time and succeeding passions are less uncontrolled.

He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love. [I John]

Love is most nearly itself when here and now cease to matter.

To love one child and to love all children, whether living or dead --somewhere these two loves come together. To love a no-good but humble punk and to love an honest man who believes himself to be an honest man --somewhere these, too, come together.

Love is a promise, love is a souvenir, once given never forgotten, never let it disappear.

My first thoughts are that I should not let people down, that I should support them and love them.

Love is the flower of life, and blossoms unexpectedly and without law, and must be plucked where it is found, and enjoyed for the brief hour of its duration.

Real love is a pilgrimage. It happens when there is no strategy, but it is very rare because most people are strategists.

The greatest gift that you can give to others is the gift of unconditional love and acceptance.

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

It is by loving and by being loved that one can come nearest to the soul of another.

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

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

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 (understood as the desire of good for another) is in fact so unnatural a phenomenon that it can scarcely repeat itself, the soul being unable to become virgin again and not having energy enough to cast itself out again into the ocean of another's soul.

If love means that one person absorbs the other, then no real relationship exists any more. Love evaporates; there is nothing left to love. The integrity of self is gone.

Women wish to be loved not because they are pretty, or good, or well bred, or graceful, or intelligent, but because they are themselves.

The best way will be to avoid each other without appearing to do so -- or if we jostle, at any rate not to bite.

You can't blame gravity for falling in love.

A good relationship is like fireworks: loud, explosive, and liable to maim you if you hold on too long.

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety. Other women cloy the appetites they feed, but she makes hungry where most she satisfies.

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

Love is a friendship set to music.

Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell.

Maybe kissing is sort of like nature's coffee.

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes... Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

It makes no difference how deeply seated may be the trouble, how hopeless the outlook, how muddled the tangle, how great the mistake. A sufficient realization of love will dissolve it all.

To love someone is to isolate him from the world, wipe out every trace of him, dispossess him of his shadow, drag him into a murderous future. It is to circle around the other like a dead star and absorb him into a black light.

Love may be blind, but it can sure find its way around in the dark!

Love and you shall be loved. All love is mathematically just, as much as the two sides of an algebraic equation.

We are shaped and fashioned by what we love.

O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, that he hath turn'd a heaven unto hell!

Love, I find, is like singing. Everybody can do enough to satisfy themselves, though it may not impress the neighbors as being very much.

'Tis the most tender part of love, each other to forgive.

Love bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If we are to judge of love by its consequences, it more nearly resembles hatred than friendship.

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