Love Is Quotes
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My love is like the wind and wild is the wind. Give me more than one caress, satisfy my hungriness. Let the wind blow through your heart for wild is the wind.
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That love is all there is, Is all we know of love.
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The giving of love is an education in itself.
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And she said 'Losing love is like a window in your heart, Everybody sees you're blown apart, Everybody feels the wind blow.'
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I would be delighted to see the pair of you married, but Sophie’s quite right to think it over; love is for a lifetime.
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When we are in a truly loving relationship, we receive the gift of being known and accepted. We become more, not less, of who we are. We receive the space in which to bloom. This is how we know we are in a loving relationship. We are blooming, and the one we love is blooming as well.
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Love is a fragile, useless thing. It decomposes easily in the tropic heat.
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Love is like the wind, you can’t see it but you can feel it.
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[I] know that love is ultimately the only answer to mankind's problems.
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...love is never stationary.
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Love elevates. Love is what you live for.
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Love's all in all to women.
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Man's love is of man's life a part; it is a woman's whole existence. In her first passion, a woman loves her lover, in all the others all she loves is love.
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Love is the poetry of the senses.
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Love is the soul of every life of prayer and of every good work.
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If love is a play, this play, as old as the world, fiasco or not, it is, all in all, the least bad thing that has so far been found. The roles are trite, I admit, but if the play had no value the whole universe wouldn’t know it by heart.
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Love is the source of every virtue in you and of every deed which deserves punishment.
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Love is a rare herb that makes a friend even of a sworn enemy and this herb grows out of nonviolence.
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Love is in all things a most wonderful teacher.
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Love is like that, fragile and light. No wonder it rests upon our hearts in intangible moments, bids us follow fleeting thoughts and ideas and pursue our abstract imaginings.
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Kisses kept are wasted; love is to be tasted.
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The only real rival of love is Art, for that in itself is a deep personal passion, its function an act of creation, fed by some mysterious perversion of sex, and demanding all the imagination's activities.
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Love is frightened at the intervals of insensibility and callousness that encroach by little and little on the domain of grief, and it makes efforts to recall the keenness of the first anguish.
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Love is work, amor. It's not something that just happens.
