Love is, above all, the gift of oneself.
Helen Barnet knew all about love. Had she not lisped its praises in odes to the moon in her high-school days? It had to do with flowers and music and angels.
You know you’re in love when you don’t want to fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.
If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he, and I was I.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
The heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of.
Love is a canvas furnished by Nature and embroidered by imagination.
Love is the greatest refreshment in life.
As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.
Love is what you’ve been through with somebody.