Motivational Quotes

He is not a lover who does not love forever.

The love of liberty is the love of others; the love of power is the love of ourselves. We cannot force love.

As Plato sometimes speaks of the divine love, it arises not out of indigency, as created love does, but out of fullness and redundancy; it is an overflowing fountain, and that love which descends upon created being is a free efflux from the almighty source of love; and it is well pleasing to him that those creatures which he hath made should partake of it.

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

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

Love is an act of endless forgiveness, a tender look which becomes a habit.

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

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.

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

In every question and every remark tossed back and forth between lovers who have not played out the last fugue, there is one question and it is this: Is there someone new?

Love is not enough. It must be the foundation, the cornerstone -- but not the complete structure. It is much too pliable, too yielding.

Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth.

I shall always be a priest of love.

Love is not only something you feel. It's something you do.

To love and be loved is the great happiness of existence.

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boist'rous, and it pricks like a thorn.

Love is like the measles, all the worse when it comes late.

Love feels no burden, regards not labors, strives toward more than it attains, argues not of impossibility, since it believes that it may and can do all things. Therefore it avails for all things, and fulfils and accomplishes much where one not a lover falls and lies helpless.

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

Whether life is worth living depends on whether there is love in life.

People who are not in love fail to understand how an intelligent man can suffer because of a very ordinary woman. This is like being surprised that anyone should be stricken with cholera because of a creature so insignificant as the comma bacillus.

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

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

Blue eyes say, Love me or I die; black eyes say, Love me or I kill thee.

Now my love is thaw'd; which, like a waxen image'gainst a fire, bears no impression of the thing it was.

Belike you thought our love would last too long, if it were chain'd together.

If we seek the pleasures of love, passion should be occasional, and common sense continual.

A false enchantment can all too easily last a lifetime.

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

The pain of love is the pain of being alive. It is a perpetual wound.

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.

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, to love that well which thou must leave ere long.

I regard as a mortal sin not only the lying of the senses in matters of love, but also the illusion which the senses seek to create where love is only partial. I say, I believe, that one must love with all of one's being, or else live, come what may, a life of complete chastity.

Love is everything. It is the key to life, and its influences are those that move the world.

I love those who do not know how to live for today.

The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can never end.

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

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.

We were two and had but one heart between us.

In the end, I decide that the mark we've left on each other is the color and shape of love. That the unfinished business between us. Because love, love is never finished. It circles and circles, the memories out of order and not always complete.

Real love stories never have endings.

Love is the only bow of life's dark cloud. It is the Morning and Evening Star. It shines upon the cradle of the babe, and sheds its radiance upon the quiet tomb. It is the Mother of Art, inspirer of poet, patriot, and philosopher. It is the air and light of every heart, builder of every home, kinder of every fire on every hearth, It was the first dream of immortality. It fills the world with melody. Love is the magician, the enchanter, that changes worthless things to joy, and makes right royal kings of common clay.

Love - THE FEELING - is a fruit of love, the verb.

In real love you want the other person's good. In romantic love, you want the other person.

I do not love you

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

that 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.

Do not wish to be anything except what you are.

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

Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart.

For in the end, we will conserve only what we love. We will love only what we understand. We will understand only what we are taught.

If that the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love.

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