The best Love Quotes

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It is engender'd in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies,
Let us all ring fancy's knell
I'll begin it, Ding, dong, bell.

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How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls,
For stony limits cannot hold loe out,
And what love can do, that dares not love attempt.

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Appreciate what you are for you are love, the love you search in everything and everywhere. Welcome what you are because you are what you try to be, what you want to be, you are life that creates your own life. Accept yourself, love of your love, because you are what you need to be. Smile at the love you emanate because you are that love you seek everywhere, peace of the senses.

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Love's death is life the death of a loved one. It leaves the same torment, the same emptiness, the same refusal to dive up to that emptiness. If you've been waiting for it, caused it, wanted it to defend yourself or for common sense of for the need of freedom when it comes along you feel invalid. Mutilated.

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In the mad or sweet hugs your body that was not tried but your soul, your thoughts, your feelings, your dreams, your poems. And maybe it's true that love almost never relates to a body, often we choose or accept a person for inexplicable charm with which it hits us, or for what it represents to our eyes, our beliefs, to our morals; however, the vehicle of a loving relationship remains the body, and if that doesn't seduce you, something else has to seduce you. The character, for example, the way of living or the behavior. And in time I discovered that I didn't like a lot your character [...] So why had I the impulse to run after you, to hug you, feel your mustache against my cheek, why did I feel the need to scrape off the throat and send back the tears?

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These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which as they kiss consume: the sweetest honey
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness
And in the taste confounds the appetite:
Therefore love moderately; long love doth so;

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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.

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You are the love that become Lord of my soul.

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And if I thought I couldn't fall in love with you twice, I was stupid. Not twice, but ten, a hundred, a thousand! We only had to find our balance.
You're the only one I ever loved and the only one I could ever love.

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It's a disinterested love: Tereza wants nothing from Karenin. She doesn't even want love. She never put to herself those questions that torture human couples: does he love me? Has he ever loved anyone else more than me? Does he love me more than I love him? Maybe all these questions aimed at love, that measure it, that investigate it, that examine it, that interrogate it, can even destroy it at birth. Maybe we're not capable of loving because we want to be loved, meaning that we want something (love) from the other intead of getting closer to him unpretensiously and wanting only their presence.