71 quotes
Love, thou hast hopes like summers, short and bright,
Moments of ecstasy, and maddening dreams,
Intense delicious throbs!
The Improvisatrice (1824)
And Love is like the lightning in its might,
Winging where least bethought its fiery flight,
Melting the blade, despite the scabbard's guard.
The Golden Violet (1827)
You may find many a brighter one
Than your own rose, but there are none
So true to thee, Love.
Love is like the glass,
That throws its own rich colour over all,
And makes all beautiful.
The Improvisatrice (1824)
Love has no power to look forward — the delicious consciousness of the present, a faint but delightful shadow of the past, form its eternity.
True love is timid, as it knew its worth,
And that such happiness is scarce for earth.
The Golden Violet (1827)
Never, dear father, love can be,
Like the dear love I had for thee!
The Troubadour (1825)
I loved him too as woman loves —
Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn.
The Improvisatrice (1824)
All the fairest things of earth,
Art's creations have their birth —
Still from love and death.
Oh, where is there the heart but knows
Love's first steps are upon the rose!
The Troubadour (1825)
Oh, softest is the cheek's love-ray
When seen by moonlight hours
Other roses seek the day,
But blushes are night flowers.
The Improvisatrice (1824)
For love is like the breathing wind,
That everywhere may entrance find.
The Golden Violet (1827)
And this is Love! Oh! why should woman love;
Wasting her dearest feelings, till health, hope,
Happiness, are but things of which henceforth
She'll only know the name?
The Improvisatrice (1824)
There is no tie
Like that last holiest link of love, which binds
The lonely child to its more lonely parent.
The scar of fire, the dint of steel,
Are easier than Love's wounds to heal.
The Troubadour (1825)
Love, passionate young Love, how sweet it is
To have the bosom made a Paradise
By thee—life lighted by thy rainbow smile!
The Vow of the Peacock (1835)
We met in secret : mystery is to love
Like perfume to the flower ; the maiden's blush
Looks loveliest when her cheek is pale with fear.
Oh! why should woman ever love,
Trusting to one false star above;
And fling her little chance away
Of sunshine for its treacherous ray.
The Troubadour (1825)
From drooping leaves, and bending flowers,
Exhaled the midnight dews !
Like love that from its inmost thoughts
Its own sweet life renews.
Gentlest one, I bow to thee,
Rose-lipp'd queen of poesy,
Sweet Erato, thou whose chords
Waken but for love-touched words !