Motivational Quotes

A false enchantment can all too easily last a lifetime.

By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another. [John 13:35]

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

You can't blame gravity for falling in love.

Love one another and you will be happy. It's as simple and as difficult as that.

I'd rather be able to face myself in the bathroom mirror than be rich and famous.

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.

At the beginning and at the end of love, the two lovers are embarrassed to find themselves alone.

Love is something eternal; the aspect may change, but not the essence.

Love is inseparable from knowledge.

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

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

A supreme love, a motive that gives a sublime rhythm to a woman's life, and exalts habit into partnership with the soul's highest needs, is not to be had where and how she wills.

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

It's afterwards you realize that the feeling of happiness you had with a man didn't necessarily prove that you loved him.

Every day I live I am more convinced that the waste of life lies in the love we have not given, the powers we have not used, the selfish prudence that will risk nothing and which, shirking pain, misses happiness as well.

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

The moment you have in your heart this extraordinary thing called love and feel the depth, the delight, the ecstasy of it, you will discover that for you the world is transform.

'Light fuse and get away'may work for a Roman candle, but not so much for the wrath of a woman scorned.

When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love.

Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.

Love is a conflict between reflexes and reflections.

She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared.

Let the first impulse pass, wait for the second.

Some cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

Pity the selfishness of lovers: it is brief, a forlorn hope; it is impossible.

Is love supposed to last throughout all time, or is it like trains changing at random stops. If I loved her, how could I leave her? If I felt that way then, how come I don't feel anything now?

I met in the street a very poor young man who was in love. His hat was old, his coat worn, his cloak was out at the elbows, the water passed through his shoes -- and the stars through his soul.

When desire, having rejected reason and overpowered judgment which leads to right, is set in the direction of the pleasure which beauty can inspire, and when again under the influence of its kindred desires it is moved with violent motion towards the beauty of corporeal forms, it acquires a surname from this very violent motion, and is called love.

A lover, when he is admitted to cards, ought to be solemnly silent, and observe the motions of his mistress. He must laugh when she laughs, sigh when she sighs. In short, he should be the shadow of her mind. A lady, in the presence of her lover, should never want a looking-glass; as a beau, in the presence of his looking-glass, never wants a mistress.

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

You can give without loving, but you cannot love without giving.

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

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.

Don't smother each other. No one can grow in the shade.

Those whom true love has held, it will go on holding.

Great passions, my dear, don't exist: they're liars fantasies. What do exist are little loves that may last for a short or a longer while.

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

Scratch a lover, and find a foe.

My God, these folks don't know how to love -- that's why they love so easily.

Can there be a love which does not make demands on its object?

Love is a ocean of emotions entirely surrounded by expenses.

Love is the beauty of the soul.

Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.

If only I had a little humility, I'd be perfect.

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

I shall always be a priest of love.

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

I don't want to live -- I want to love first, and live incidentally.

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?

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