Loved Quotes (page 181)
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If I stand alone, It does not mean, I am any less a Human, If my arms do not hold another, It does not mean, They are incapable of holding, If my tongue is silent, And never speaks the words of Love, It does not mean, That it will be mute, When the time comes, That the words can sincerely be spoken. And just because the World, Has not yet introduced, The one that will share my Life, It certainly does not mean, That I am incapable, Of Loving.
Javan
Only part of us is sane: only part of us loves pleasure and the longer day of happiness, wants to live to our nineties and die in peace, in a house that we built, that shall shelter those who come after us. The other half of us is nearly mad. It prefers the disagreeable to the agreeable, loves pain and its darker night despair, and wants to die in a catastrophe that will set back life to its beginnings and leave nothing of our house save its blackened foundations.
Rebecca West
Let me twine. Mine arms about that body, where against. My grained ash an hundred times hath broke And scarr'd the moon with splinters: here I clip. The anvil of my sword, and do contest. As hotly and as nobly with thy love. As ever in ambitious strength I did. Contend against thy valour. Know thou first, I loved the maid I married; never man. Sigh'd truer breath; but that I see thee here, Thou noble thing! more dances my rapt heart. Than when I first my wedded mistress saw. Bestride my...
William Shakespeare
here was a silence between them for a moment, and she wondered if all women, when in love, were torn between two impulses, a longing to throw modesty and reserve to the winds and confess everything, and an equal determination to conceal the love forever, to be cool, aloof, utterly detached, to die rather than admit a thing so personal, so intimate.
Daphne du Maurier
I am, yet what I am none cares or knowsMy friends forsake me like a memory lostI am the self-consumer of my woesThey rise and vanish in oblivious hostLike shadows in love's frenzied, stifled throesAnd yet I am, and live, like vapours tossedInto the nothingness of scorn and noiseInto the living sea of waking dreamsWhere there is neither sense of life or joysBut the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;Even the dearest, that I loved the bestAre strange - nay, rather stranger than the rest
John Clare
