I Love You

Last night I see a dreamThat I am in a gardenCool breeze is blowingThere are colorful flowers everywhereSuddenly a beautiful GirlCome near to me and sayI Love You!I turned back to herAnd see in her eyesThere is a lot of Love in her eyesAfter some time I come to knowThat I know her very wellThat Girl is my classmate SaraI go near to herAnd kiss on her hands and sayI Love you too….Suddenly I

100 Famous Love Quotes of All Time

A flower cannot blossom without sunshine, and man cannot live without love. ~ Max Muller

Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies. ~ Aristotle Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye. ~ H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

Affection is responsible for nine-tenths of whatever solid and durable happiness there is in our lives. ~  C. S. LewisA man reserves his true and deepest

Best Love Quotes of Khalil Gibran

 



~ If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they 
were always yours. And if they don't, they never were.
~ And ever has it been known that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.
~ When love beckons to you, follow him, though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And

Unlyric Love Song

It is time to give that-of-myself which I could not at first:To offer you now at last my least and my worst:Minor, absurd preserves,The shell's end-curves,A document kept at the back of a drawer,A tin hidden under the floor,Recalcitrant prides and hesitations:To pile them carefully in a desparate oblationAnd say to you "quickly! turn themOnce over and burn them".Now I (no communist, heaven knows!

Epitaph For Our Children

Blame us for these who were cradled and rocked in our chaos;Watching our sidelong watching, fearing our fear;Playing their blind-man's-bluff in our gutted mansions,Their follow-my-leader on a stair that ended in air.

Symphony In Red

Within the churchThe solemn priests advance,And the sunlight, stained by the heavy windows,Dyes a yet richer red the scarlet bannersAnd the scarlet robes of the young boys that bear them,And the thoughts of one of these are far away,With carmined lips pouting an invitation,Are with his love; his love, like a crimson poppyFlaunting amid prim lupins;And his ears hear nought of the words sung from

The Triumph Of Woman

Glad as the weary traveller tempest-tostTo reach secure at length his native coast,Who wandering long o'er distant lands has sped,The night-blast wildly howling round his head,Known all the woes of want, and felt the stormOf the bleak winter parch his shivering form;The journey o'er and every peril pastBeholds his little cottage-home at last,And as he sees afar the smoke curl slow,Feels his full

The Well of St. Keyne

A Well there is in the west country,And a clearer one never was seen;There is not a wife in the west countryBut has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,And behind doth an ash-tree grow,And a willow from the bank aboveDroops to the water below.A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne;Joyfully he drew nigh,For from the cock-crow he had been travelling,And there was

The Widow

Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snows fell,Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked,When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journeyWeary and way-sore.Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflexions;Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom!She had no home, the world was all before her,She had no shelter.Fast o'er the bleak heath rattling drove a chariot,"Pity me!" feebly cried

To a Goose

If thou didst feed on western plains of yoreOr waddle wide with flat and flabby feetOver some Cambrian mountain's plashy moor,Or find in farmer's yard a safe retreatFrom gipsy thieves and foxes sly and fleet;If thy grey quills by lawyer guided, traceDeeds big with ruin to some wretched race,Or love-sick poet's sonnet, sad and sweet,Wailing the rigour of some lady fair;Or if, the drudge of

To Contemplation

Faint gleams the evening radiance thro' the sky,The sober twilight dimly darkens round;In short quick circles the shrill bat flits by,And the slow vapour curls along the ground.Now the pleas'd eye from yon lone cottage seesOn the green mead the smoke long-shadowing play;The Red-breast on the blossom'd sprayWarbles wild her latest lay,And sleeps along the dale the silent breeze.Calm CONTEMPLATION,

To Horror

Dark HORROR, hear my call!Stern Genius hear from thy retreatOn some old sepulchre's moss-cankered seat,Beneath the Abbey's ivied wallThat trembles o'er its shade;Where wrapt in midnight gloom, alone,Thou lovest to lie and hearThe roar of waters near,And listen to the deep dull groanOf some perturbed spriteBorne fitful on the heavy gales of night.Or whether o'er some wide waste hillThou mark'st

To My Own Minature Picture Taken At Two Years Of Age

And I was once like this! that glowing cheekWas mine, those pleasure-sparkling eyes, that browSmooth as the level lake, when not a breezeDies o'er the sleeping surface! twenty yearsHave wrought strange alteration! Of the friendsWho once so dearly prized this miniature,And loved it for its likeness, some are goneTo their last home; and some, estranged in heart,Beholding me with quick-averted

To The Genius Of Africa

O thou who from the mountain's heightRoll'st down thy clouds with all their weightOf waters to old Niles majestic tide;Or o'er the dark sepulchral plainRecallest thy Palmyra's ancient pride,Amid whose desolated domesSecure the savage chacal roams,Where from the fragments of the hallow'd faneThe Arabs rear their miserable homes!Hear Genius hear thy children's cry!Not always should'st thou love to

Winter

A wrinkled crabbed man they picture thee,Old Winter, with a rugged beard as greyAs the long moss upon the apple-tree;Blue-lipt, an icedrop at thy sharp blue nose,Close muffled up, and on thy dreary wayPlodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair,Watching the children at their Christmas mirth;Or

Written On Sunday Morning

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!I to the Woodlands wend, and thereIn lovely Nature see the GOD OF LOVE.The swelling organ's pealWakes not my soul to zeal,Like the wild music of the wind-swept grove.The gorgeous altar and the mystic vestRouse not such ardor in my breast,As where the noon-tide beamFlash'd from the broken stream,Quick vibrates on the dazzled sight;Or where the cloud-suspended

Astrophel and Stella: III

Let dainty wits cry on the sisters nine,That, bravely mask'd, their fancies may be told;Or, Pindar's apes, flaunt they in phrases fine,Enam'ling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold.Or else let them in statelier glory shine,Ennobling newfound tropes with problems old;Or with strange similes enrich each line,Of herbs or beasts which Ind or Afric hold.For me, in sooth, no Muse but one I know;

My True Love Hath My Heart, And I Have His

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,By just exchange, one for the other giv'n.I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;There never was a better bargain driv'n.His heart in me keeps me and him in one,My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;He loves my heart, for once it was his own;I cherish his, because in me it bides.His heart his wound received from my sight:My heart was wounded

To The Sad Moon

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!How silently, and with how wan a face!What! May it be that even in heavenly placeThat busy archer his sharp arrows tries?Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyesCan judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case:I read it in thy looks; thy languished graceTo me, that feel the like, thy state descries.Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,Is

A Widow Bird Sate Mourning For Her Love

A widow bird sate mourning for her LoveUpon a wintry bough;The frozen wind crept on above,The freezing stream below.There was no leaf upon the forest bare,No flower upon the ground,And little motion in the airExcept the mill-wheel's sound.

Feelings Of A Republican On The Fall Of Bonaparte

I hated thee, fallen tyrant! I did groanTo think that a most unambitious slave,Like thou, shouldst dance and revel on the graveOf Liberty. Thou mightst have built thy throneWhere it had stood even now: thou didst preferA frail and bloody pomp which Time has sweptIn fragments towards Oblivion. Massacre,For this I prayed, would on thy sleep have crept,Treason and Slavery, Rapine, Fear, and Lust,And

To Night

Swiftly walk over the western wave,Spirit of Night!Out of the misty eastern caveWhere, all the long and lone daylight,Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,Which make thee terrible and dear, --Swift be thy flight!Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,Star-inwrought!Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,Kiss her until she be wearied out,Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,Touching all with thine opiate

Asia: From Prometheus Unbound

My soul is an enchanted boat,Which, like a sleeping swan, doth floatUpon the silver waves of thy sweet singing;And thine doth like an angel sitBeside a helm conducting it,Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing.It seems to float ever, for ever,Upon that many-winding river,Between mountains, woods, abysses,A paradise of wildernesses!Till, like one in slumber bound,Borne to the ocean, I float

To Jane

The keen stars were twinkling,And the fair moon was rising among them,Dear Jane.The guitar was tinkling,But the notes were not sweet till you sung themAgain.As the moon's soft splendourO'er the faint cold starlight of HeavenIs thrown,So your voice most tenderTo the strings without soul had then givenIts own.The stars will awaken,Though the moon sleep a full hour laterTo-night;No leaf will be

50 most romantic love quotes for 2013

Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell There God is dwelling too.
William Blake
Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.Rainer Maria RilkeMarrying for love may be a bit risky, but it is so honest that God can't help but smile on it.Josh BillingsI have found men who didn't know how to kiss. I've always found time to teach them.Mae WestLet the world stop

Sonnet 147: My love is as a fever, longing still

My love is as a fever, longing stillFor that which longer nurseth the disease,Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please.My reason, the physician to my love,Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,Hath left me, and I desperate now approveDesire is death, which physic did except.Past cure I am, now reason is past care,And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;

Sonnet 148: O me! what eyes hath love put in my head

O me! what eyes hath love put in my head,Which have no correspondence with true sight!Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,That censures falsely what they see aright?If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,What means the world to say it is not so?If it be not, then love doth well denoteLove's eye is not so true as all men's "no."How can it? O, how can love's eye be true,That is so vexed

Sonnet 149: Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not

Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not,When I against my self with thee partake?Do I not think on thee when I forgotAm of my self, all tyrant, for thy sake?Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spendRevenge upon my self with present moan?What merit do I in my self respect,That is so proud thy service to despise,

Sonnet 15: When I consider every thing that grows

When I consider every thing that growsHolds in perfection but a little moment.That this huge stage presenteth nought but showsWhereon the stars in secret influence comment.When I perceive that men as plants increase,Cheerèd and checked even by the self-same sky,Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,And wear their brave state out of memory;Then the conceit of this inconstant stay,Sets

Sonnet 150: O from what power hast thou this powerful might

O, from what power hast thou this powerful mightWith insufficiency my heart to sway?To make me give the lie to my true sight,And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,That in the very refuse of thy deedsThere is such strength and warrantise of skillThat, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,The

Sonnet 151: Love is too young to know what conscience is

Love is too young to know what conscience is;Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove.For thou betraying me, I do betrayMy nobler part to my gross body's treason;My soul doth tell my body that he mayTriumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason,But, rising at thy name, doth point out theeAs his triumphant

Sonnet 152: In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn

In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,But thou art twice forsworn to me love swearing:In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith tornIn vowing new hate after new love bearing.But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee,When I break twenty? I am perjured most,For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee,And all my honest faith in thee is lost.For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,

Sonnet 153: Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep

Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep,A maid of Dian's this advantage found,And his love-kindling fire did quickly steepIn a cold valley-fountain of that ground;Which borrowed from this holy fire of LoveA dateless lively heat still to endure,And grew a seeting bath, which yet men proveAgainst strange maladies a sovereign cure.But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,The boy for trial

Sonnet 154: The little Love-god lying once asleep

The little love god lying once asleepLaid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keepCame tripping by; but in her maiden hand,The fairest votary took up that fireWhich many legions of true hearts had warmed,And so the general of hot desireWas sleeping by a virgin hand disarmed.This brand she quenched in a cool well by,Which from Love's fire took heat

Sonnet 16: But wherefore do not you a mightier way

But wherefore do not you a mightier wayMake war upon this bloody tyrant, Time,And fortify your self in your decayWith means more blessèd than my barren rhyme?Now stand you on the top of happy hours,And many maiden gardens yet unset,With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,Much liker than your painted counterfeit:So should the lines of life that life repairWhich this, Time's pencil, or my

Sonnet 17: Who will believe my verse in time to come

Who will believe my verse in time to comeIf it were filled with your most high deserts?Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tombWhich hides your life, and shows not half your parts:If I could write the beauty of your eyes,And in fresh numbers number all your graces,The age to come would say, "This poet lies,Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces."So should my papers, yellowed with

Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate.Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summer's lease hath all too short a date.Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimmed;And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed.But thy eternal summer shall not fadeNor lose possession

Sonnet 19: Devouring Time blunt thou the lion's paws

Devouring Time blunt thou the lion's paws,And make the earth devour her own sweet brood,Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,And burn the long-lived phoenix, in her blood,Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,And do whate'er thou wilt swift-footed TimeTo the wide world and all her fading sweets.But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:O carve not with thy hours my love's fair

Sonnet 2: When forty winters shall besiege thy brow

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,Will be a tattered weed of small worth held.Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,To say within thine own deep sunken eyes,Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,If thou

Sonnet 20: A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted

A woman's face with Nature's own hand paintedHast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;A woman's gentle heart, but not acquaintedWith shifting change, as is false women's fashion;An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;A man in hue, all hues in his controlling,Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.And for a woman wert thou first

Sonnet 21: So is it not with me as with that muse

So is it not with me as with that muse,Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,Who heaven it self for ornament doth useAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse,Making a couplement of proud compareWith sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,With April's first-born flowers, and all things rareThat heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.O, let me, true in love, but truly write,And then,

Sonnet 23: As an unperfect actor on the stage

As an unperfect actor on the stageWho with his fear is put beside his part,Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart,So I, for fear of trust, forget to sayThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.O, let my books be then the eloquenceAnd dumb presagers of

Sonnet 22: My glass shall not persuade me I am old

My glass shall not persuade me I am oldSo long as youth and thou are of one date;But when in thee Time's furrows I behold,Then look I death my days should expiate.For all that beauty that doth cover theeIs but the seemly raiment of my heart,Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me.How can I then be elder than thou art?O, therefore, love, be of thyself so waryAs I not for myself, but for thee

Sonnet 24: Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled

Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelledThy beauty's form in table of my heart;My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,And perspective it is best painter's art.For through the painter must you see his skillTo find where your true image pictured lies,Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,That hath his windows glazèd with thine eyes.Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:Mine

Sonnet 25: Let those who are in favour with their stars

Let those who are in favour with their starsOf public honour and proud titles boast,Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,Unlooked for joy in that I honour most.Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread,But as the marigold at the sun's eye,And in themselves their pride lies burièd,For at a frown they in their glory die.The painful warrior famousèd for fight,After a thousand

Sonnet 26: Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalageThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,To thee I send this written embassageTo witness duty, not to show my wit—Duty so great, which wit so poor as mineMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,But that I hope some good conceit of thineIn thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;Till whatsoever star that guides my movingPoints on me graciously with

Sonnet 27: Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,The dear respose for limbs with travel tirèd;But then begins a journey in my headTo work my mind, when body's work's expirèd.For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,Looking on darkness which the blind do see;Save that my soul's imaginary sightPresents thy shadow to my sightless

Sonnet 28: How can I then return in happy plight

How can I then return in happy plightThat am debarred the benefit of rest?When day's oppression is not eased by night,But day by night, and night by day oppressed?And each, though enemies to either's reign,Do in consent shake hands to torture me,The one by toil, the other to complainHow far I toil, still farther off from thee.I tell the day, to please him, thou art brightAnd dost him grace when

Sonnet 29: When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes

When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,I all alone beweep my outcast state,And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,And look upon myself and curse my fate,Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,With what I most enjoy contented least;Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,Haply I

Sonnet 3: Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest

Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewestNow is the time that face should form another,Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.For where is she so fair whose uneared wombDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?Or who is he so fond will be the tombOf his self-love to stop posterity?Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in theeCalls back the

Sonnet 30: When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

When to the sessions of sweet silent thoughtI summon up remembrance of things past,I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste.Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight.Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,

Sonnet 31: Thy bosom is endearèd with all hearts

Thy bosom is endearèd with all hearts,Which I by lacking have supposèd dead,And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,And all those friends which I thought burièd.How many a holy and obsequious tearHath dear religious love stol'n from mine eyeAs interest of the dead, which now appearBut things removed that hidden in thee lie!Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,Hung with the

Sonnet 32: If thou survive my well-contented day

If thou survive my well-contented dayWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,And shalt by fortune once more re-surveyThese poor rude lines of thy deceasèd lover,Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,And though they be outstripped by every pen,Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,Exceeded by the height of happier men.O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:"Had my