Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless; / Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free.
She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, / Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!
She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!
The most dire disaster in love is the death of imagination.
The season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures.
Jealousy is love bed of burning snarl.
Prepare, You lovers, to know Love a thing of moods: Not like hard life, of laws.
Swift doth young Love flee, And we stand wakened, shivering from our dream.
Under yonder beech-tree single on the greensward, / Couched with her arms behind her golden head, / Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly, / Lies my young love sleeping in the shade.