Quote by Anonymous
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her. To hear the immense night, more immense without her. And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
Music I heard with you was more than music, and bread I broke with you was more than bread. Now that I am without you, all is desolate; all that was once so beautiful is dead.
All that remains to us when love and glory are over, when adventures and passions have faded into the past, is but a deeper and ever-deepening sense of the infinite; and if we have not that within us, then are we destitute indeed.
You think I have no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of love or kindness; but I cannot live so: and you have no pity.
I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you.
I cannot eat, I cannot drink; the pleasures of youth and love are fled away: there was a good time once, but now that is gone, and life is no longer life.
And he that shuts out love, in turn shall be shut out from love, and on her threshold lie howling in outer darkness.
In love, unlike most other passions, the recollection of what you have had and lost is always better than what you can hope for in the future.
Within my heart is lurking suspicion, and base fear, and shame and hate; but above all, tyrannous love sits throned, crowned with her graces, silent and in tears.