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

The thought manifests as the word. The word manifests as the deed. The deed develops into habit. And the habit hardens into character. So watch the thought and its ways with care. And let it spring from love, born out of concern for all beings. . -Buddha.

Doubt that the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love.

It's love, it's love that makes the world go round.

Oh, tell me whence Love cometh! Love comes uncall'd, unsent. Oh, tell me where Love goeth! That was not Love that went.

I seek for one as fair and gay, But find none to remind me, How blest the hours pass'd away With the girl I left behind me.

Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight, Greensleeves was my heart of gold, And who but Lady Greensleeves?

When love's well-timed 'tis not a fault of love; The strong, the brave, the virtuous, and the wise, Sink in the soft captivity together.

When love once pleads admission to our hearts, , The woman that deliberates is lost.

Mysterious love, uncertain treasure, Hast thou more of pain or pleasure! . . . . Endless torments dwell above thee: Yet who would live, and live without thee!

For 'tis impossible Hate to return with love.

Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get, it's what you are expected to give--which is everything.

Somewhere there waiteth in this world of ours For one lone soul another lonely soul, Each choosing each through all the weary hours, And meeting strangely at one sudden goal, Then blend they, like green leaves with golden flowers, Into one beautiful and perfect whole; And life's long night is ended, and the way Lies open onward to eternal day.

Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain.

One sweet, sad secret holds my heart in thrall; A mighty love within my breast has grown, Unseen, unspoken, and of no one known; And of my sweet, who gave it, least of all.

Ask not of me, love, what is love? Ask what is good of God above; Ask of the great sum what is light; Ask what is darkness of the night; Ask sin of what may be forgiven; Ask what is happiness of heaven; Ask what is folly of the crowd; Ask what is fashion of the shroud; Ask what is sweetness of thy kiss; Ask of thyself what beauty is.

I cannot love as I have loved, And yet I know not why; It is the one great woe of life To feel all feeling die.

Love spends his all, and still hath store.

The sweetest joy, the wildest woe is love.

Could I love less, I should be happier now.