Love is a severe critic. Hate can pardon more than love.—Thoreau.
Young love-making, that gossamer web! Even the points it clings to—the things whence its subtle interlacings are swung—are scarcely perceptible: momentary touches of finger-tips, meetings of rays from blue and dark orbs, unfinished phrases, lightest changes of cheek and lip, faintest tremors. The web itself is made of spontaneous beliefs and indefinable joys, yearnings of one life towards another, visions of completeness, indefinite trust.—George Eliot.
Love is the loadstone of love.—Mrs. Osgood.
Love is never lasting which flames before it burns.—Feltham.
The best part of woman's love is worship; but it is hard to her to be sent away with her precious spikenard rejected, and her long tresses, too, that were let fall ready to soothe the wearied feet.—George Eliot.
Love is an Oriental despot.—Madame Swetchine.
We must love as looking one day to hate.—George Herbert.
Love with old men is as the sun upon the snow, it dazzles more than it warms them.—J. Petit Senn.
Love is lowliness; on the wedding ring sparkles no jewel.—Richter.
Love alone is wisdom, love alone is power; and where love seems to fail, it is where self has stepped between and dulled the potency of its rays.—George MacDonald.