Quotes About Romance

Mine was the twilight and the morning. Mine was a world of rooftops and love songs.

Ô, Wanderess, Wanderess When did you feel your most euphoric kiss? Was I the source of your greatest bliss?

I regained my soul through literature after those times I'd lost it to wild-eyed gypsy girls on the European streets.

She was so delicate that, while we sat beneath the linden branches, a leaf would fall and drift down and touch her skin, and it would leave a bruise. So as we sat in the afternoon hour, beneath that fragrant linden bower, I had to chase all of the leafs that fell away.

I know a girl from whose body sunbeams rose to the clouds as if they'd fallen from the sun. Her laugh was like a bangle of bells. "Your hair is wet," I told her one day, "Did you take a bath?" "It is dew!" she laughed, "I've been lying in the grass. All morning long, I lay here waiting for the dawn.

All I want in this life are three... a moonlit beach on the starlit sea, a breath of opium, and thee.

Our lips were for each other and our eyes were full of dreams. We knew nothing of travel and we knew nothing of loss. Ours was a world of eternal spring, until the summer came.

The lot of the bride to be wed before bed desired until rotten. The lot of the author to be read before bed admired then forgotten.

So the nymphs they spoke, we kissed and laid. By noontime's hour our love was made. Like braided chains of crocus stems, we lay entwined, I laid with them. Our breath, one glassy, tideless sea, our bodies draping wearily, we slept, I slept so lucidly, with hopes to stay this memory.

My Love wakes in a puddle of sunlight. Her hands asleep beside her. Her hair draped on the lawn like a mantle of cloth. I give her my life for our love is whole I sing her beauty in my soul.

Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent, more perfect than all that a man can invent.

She is my morning, she is my evening; we have a love that blooms over and again, more beautifully each time than the last.

A glorious death would be in my final breath to take before I die, to hear one final time on my belovèd's mouth the sound of her eternal sigh.

I took her to bed with silk and song 'Lay still, my love, I won't be long, I must prepare my body for passion.' 'O, your body you give, but all else you ration...

We made love outdoors—without a roof, I like most, without stove, my favorite place, assuming the weather be fair and balmy, and the earth beneath be clean. Our souls intertwined and dripping with dew, and our love for each other was seen. Our love for the world was new.

Ah, youth! It was a beautiful night... The moon was out of orbit. The stars were awry. But everything else was exactly as it should have been.

I likened her to the slender PSYCHÉ and judged that the perfection of her face ennobled everything unclean around her: The dusty hems of her bunched-up skirt, the worn straps of her nightshirt; the blackened soles of her bare feet [...] All this and the pungent air! Ô this night, sweet pungent night! "HÉBÉ" may come but a season. But this girl's season would know a hot spring and an Indian summer.

Alexander the Great slept with 'The Iliad' beneath his pillow. Though I've never led an army, I am a wanderer. I cradle 'The Odyssey' nights while the moon is waning, as if it were the sweet body of a woman.

Even the memory of cradling her in my arms is pure euphoria. And all that I ask out of life is that it be constant and unending euphoria.

Si je dois mourir dans cette belle vie, je veux que ça soit fait par tes belles mains.

We made love outdoors Without a roof, I like most, Without stove, to make love, assuming the weather be fair and balmy, and the earth beneath be clean. Our souls intertwined and gushing of dew.

She wakes in a puddle of sunlight. Her hands asleep beside her. Her hair draped on the lawn like a mantle of cloth. I give her my troth for our love is whole; her breath is my wine, her scent is my soul.

My girl was mad and I loved her. Upon a night, she read my poetry; and kissing me madly she cried, 'You are a genius, my love!' To which I replied, 'My girl,' whispering, 'Every doctor in this land with a prescription pad is more of a genius than I.

Wanderess, Wanderess, emporte-nous dans un récit de séduction et de ruse. Héroïque sera la Wanderess, le Monde sera sa Muse !