Quotes About Romance

No fair-minded girl objects to a certain tinge of jealousy. Kept within proper bounds, it is a compliment; it makes for piquancy; it is the gin in the ginger-beer of devotion. But it should be a condiment, not a fluid.

You know how it is. Love's flame flickers and dies, reason returns to her throne, and you aren't nearly as ready to hop about and jump through hoops as in the first pristine glow of the divine passion.

Sheh walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes. Another bit of bread and cheese, he said to the lad behind the bar.

Love is a fever which, so to speak, drives off without wasting time on the address.

There was something about this girl that made the most bizarre happenings seem right and natural. Ever since he had met her his life had changed from an orderly succession of uninteresting days to a strange carnival of the unexpected, and use was accustoming him to it.

Until tonight I saw him only through the golden mist of love, and thought him the perfect man. This evening he revealed himself as what he really is – a satyr.

Cupid, who never shoots with a surer aim than through the steam of boarding-house hash, sniped him where he sat.

At present, he's got the idea that I'm a kind of ... Who was the chap who was such a devil with the other sex? ... Donald something. Donald Duck?' Don Juan. That's the fellow I mean

The Rocky Mountains, that traditional stamping-ground for the heartbroken, may be well enough in their way; but a lover has to be cast in a pretty stem mould to be able to be introspective when at any moment he may meet an annoyed cinnamon bear.

A man, I felt, who could stay indoors cataloguing vases while his fiancée wandered in the moonlight with explorers deserved all that was coming to him.

Oh Brancepeth,' said the girl, her voice trembling, 'why haven't you any money? If only you had the merest pittance - enough for a flat in Mayfair and a little weekend place in the country somewhere and a couple of good cars and a villa in the South of France and a bit of trout fishing on some decent river, I would risk all for love.

Bertie : [on Gussie] Any message for him? Roderick Spode - 8th Earl of Sidcup: Yes. Tell him I'm going to break his neck. Bertie : Break his neck, right. And, if he should ask why? Roderick Spode - 8th Earl of Sidcup : He knows why. Because he is a butterfly, who toys with women's hearts and throws them away like soiled gloves! Bertie : Do butterflies do that? Roderick Spode - 8th Earl of Sidcup : Are you trying to be funny?

XVIII. THE LOCHINVAR METHOD XIX. ON THE LAKE XX. A LESSON IN PICQUET

I turned the dial back to sixteen, lifted the handle, and jerked the locker door open. Wendy let out an "Oh" and reached for the roses. Then she spun around and planted a kiss on me—right there in front of Jerry Bridges and Mr. Crowell and everybody. "Crimeny," Jerry said, and walked off. Mr. Crowell grinned and looked away. I just stood there with a stupid smile on my face, too far gone even to say, "Happy Valentine's Day.

Our driveway seemed darker than usual. I knew it was silly, but I kept looking around as I walked. Then something rustled in the trees overhead. That was enough for me. I took off running and didn't stop until I made it to the bottom of the boat ramp. Conditions at the marina weren't exactly ideal for a romantic conversation. The wind was howling, and the docks groaned as they rose and fell. Even so, it was better than trying to talk with Julie around.

Love is the mystery of water and a star.

Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.

You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

with your name on my mouth and a kiss that never broke away from yours.

I will bring you flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Your eyes have the colour of the moon

Naked you are blue like the night in Cuba, you have vines and stars in your hair

Oh invade me with your scalding mouth, search me if you like, with your nocturnal eyes, but allow me to sail and sleep upon your name.

I want to do with you what spring does with cherry trees.