Motivational Quotes

Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

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

Love is a ocean of emotions entirely surrounded by expenses.

If you aren't good at loving yourself, you will have a difficult time loving anyone, since you'll resent the time and energy you give another person that you aren't even giving to yourself.

Love is the big booming beat which covers up the noise of hate.

The snow goose need not bathe to make itself white. Neither need you do anything but be yourself.

When love begins to sicken and decay, it useth an enforced ceremony.

Love is a promise, love is a souvenir, once given never forgotten, never let it disappear.

Falling out of love is chiefly a matter of forgetting how charming someone is.

Self-love is the instrument of our preservation.

Love is a spendthrift, leaves it arithmetic at home, is always in the red.

Love is not the dying moan of a distant violin-it's the triumphant twang of a bedspring.

Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.

Loving can cost a lot but not loving always costs more, and those who fear to love often find that want of love is an emptiness that robs the joy from life.

This is my commandment, that ye love one another. [Jesus, In John 15:12]

The only victory over love is flight.

You can't put a price tag on love, but you can on all its accessories.

Love is as much of an object as an obsession, everybody wants it, everybody seeks it, but few ever achieve it, those who do will cherish it, be lost in it, and among all, never... never forget it.

But love is blind and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit; For if they could, Cupid himself would blush To see me thus transformed to a boy.

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.

Love ever gives. Forgives outlives. And ever stands with open hands. And while it lives, it gives. For this is love's prerogatives -- to give, and give, and give.

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

Human Love... It is that extra creation that stands hurt and baffled at the place of death. Being human, wanting children and sunlight and breath to go on, forever.

Love is the joy of the good, the wonder of the wise, the amazement of the Gods.

There's a lot to be said for self-delusionment when it comes to matters of the heart.

A life without love in it is like a heap of ashes upon a deserted hearth, with the fire dead, the laughter stilled and the light extinguished.

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

She hadn't chosen him over all the others. The truth was that she hadn't even thought about anyone else.

You can't show love to someone at the expense of someone else who loves you.

For love... has two faces; one white, the other black; two bodies; one smooth, the other hairy. It has two hands, two feet, two tails, two, indeed, of every member and each one is the exact opposite of the other. Yet, so strictly are they joined together

Love is everything it's cracked up to beàIt really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for.

Love is what we are born with. Fear is what we learn. The spiritual journey is the unlearning of fear and prejudices and the acceptance of love back in our hearts. Love is the essential reality and our purpose on earth. To be consciously aware of it, to experience love in ourselves and others, is the meaning of life. Meaning does not lie in things. Meaning lies in us.

We love those who admire us, but not those whom we admire.

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

I hated her now with a hatred more fatal than indifference because it was the other side of love.

What is love? It is the morning and the evening star.

Love is the cheapest of religions.

There is no remedy for love than to love more.

The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved; loved for ourselves, or rather in spite of ourselves.

At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.

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

We cease loving ourselves if no one loves us.

The more I think about it, the more I realize there is nothing more artistic that to love others.

And you are to love those who are your aliens for you yourselves were aliens in Egypt. [Deuteronomy 10:19]

Infinite hungers leap no more I in the chance swaying of your dress; and love has changed to kindliness.

Love and you shall be loved. All love is mathematically just, as much as the two sides of an algebraic equation.

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.

Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead.

We are nearer loving those who hate us than those who love us more than we wish.

Neither a lofty degree of intelligence nor imagination nor both together go to the making of genius. Love, love, love, that is the soul of genius.

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