Motivational Quotes

Don't worry about growing older or pleasing others. Please yourself.

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

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

Love is the bridge between two hearts.

Alas, their love may be call'd appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate.

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

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

If only the strength of the love that people feel when it is reciprocated could be as intense and obsessive as the love we feel when it is not; then marriages would be truly made in heaven.

No one worth possessing can be quite possessed.

Love is a tyrant sparing none.

Love is inseparable from knowledge.

If I love you Wednesday, What is that to you? I do not love you Thursday -- so much is true.

Loving people live in a loving world. Hostile people live in a hostile world. Same world.

To fall in love is easy, even to remain in it is not difficult; our human loneliness is cause enough. But is a hard quest worth making to find a comrade through whose steady presence one becomes steadily the person one desires to be.

When first we met we did not guess that Love would prove so hard a master.

What does love look like? It has the hands to help others. It has the feet to hasten to the poor and needy. It has eyes to see misery and want. It has the ears to hear the sighs and sorrows of men. That is what love looks like.

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 thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth.

I like not only to be loved, but also to be told that I am loved. I am not sure that you are of the same kind. But the realm of silence is large enough beyond the grave. This is the world of literature and speech and I shall take leave to tell you that you are very dear.

Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.

It's unthinkable not to love --you'd have a severe nervous breakdown. Or you'd have to be Philip Larkin.

When we understand that man is the only animal who must create meaning, who must open a wedge into neutral nature, we already understand the essence of love. Love is the problem of an animal who must find life, create a dialogue with nature in order to experience his own being.

My love admits no qualifying dross.

Love's greatest gift is its ability to make everything it touches sacred.

But the strong base and building of my love is as the very centre of the earth, drawing all things to it.

How many cares one loses when one decides not to be something, but to be someone.

Love is the cheapest of religions.

The root of the matter the thing I mean is love, Christian love, or compassion. If you feel this, you have a motive for existence, a guide for action, a reason for courage, an imperative necessity for intellectual honesty.

We cannot avoid using power, cannot escape the compulsion to afflict the world, so let us, cautious in diction and mighty in contradiction, love powerfully.

I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.

I know that I can give love for a minute, for half an hour; for a day, for a month, but I can give and I'm very happy to do that and I want to do that.

The enthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyond the biographer's.

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

What then in love can woman do? If we grow fond they shun us. And when we fly them, they pursue: But leave us when they've won us.

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 the great miracle cure. Loving ourselves works miracles in our lives.

The season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures.

Life is the flower for which love is the honey.

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

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

Love is only the game that is not called on account of darkness.

All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, with sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.

We live in the world when we love it.

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

Scratch a lover, and find a foe.

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.

You can't love anyone until you understand that you can't love everyone.

A man can go from being a lover to being a stranger in three moves flat but a woman under the guise of friendship will engage in acts of duplicity which come to light very much later. There are different species of self-justification.

Real love is a permanently self-enlarging experience.

Clenched Soul

We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.

I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.
Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.

I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.

Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?

The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.

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