Quotes About Mystery

The heart has reasons that reason does not understand.

The loveliest of faces are to be seen by moonlight, when one sees half with the eye and half with the fancy.

Now comes the mystery.

True love is like ghosts, which everybody talks about and few have seen.

You couldn't get a clue during the clue mating season in a field full of horny clues if you smeared your body with clue musk and did the clue mating dance.

Love that can be explained is not love.

Oh, Love is the crooked thing, there is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it, for he will be thinking about love til the stars run away and the shadows eaten the moon...

For what is the beloved? She is that which I myself am not. In the act of love, I am pure male, and she is pure female. She is she, and I am I, and clasped together with her, I know how perfectly she is not me, now perfectly I am not her, how utterly we are two, the light and the darkness, and how infinetly and eternally, not-to-be-comprehended by either of us is the surpassing One we make.

In a universe of ambiguity, this kind of certainty comes only once, no matter how many lifetimes you live.

I love more and more, but actually I don't know why. You are so sweet, so tender, so careful with my soul, and me a stupid angel, I'm afraid to tell you you're exactly what I'm wainting for.

Love is a quicksilver word; though you see plainly where it is, you have only to put your finger on it to find that it is not there but someplace else.

I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, who has sight so keen and strong That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroken; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

One way can be learned by starting to see the magic in everything. Sometimes it seems to be hiding but it is always there. The more we can see the magic in one thing, a tiny flower, a mango, someone we love, then the more we are able to see the magic in everything and in everyone. Where does the mango stop and the sky begin?

Love is I know not what, which comes from I know not where and finishes I know not how.

There are mysteries about out love. Things that neither one of us may ever understand because love is an emotion without limit and understanding. We know we love each other but we could never explain completely as WHY we love each other. Love is not a clock. You simply cannot take it apart just to see what makes it tick, and even if you could, you probably could never get it back together again.

The face of a lover is an unknown, precisely because it is invested with so much of oneself. It is a mystery, containing, like all mysteries, the possibility of torment.

I don't love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as one loves certain dark things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

The world is a giant puzzle that hasnt been put together yet, and were trying to find the other piece of this puzzle that goes with us

I don't know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all the roses.

Oh oh it's magic When I'm with you Oh oh it's magic You know it's true Got a hold on you

Love is so holy, so confusing. It makes a man anxious, tormented. Love, how can I define it?

A man nearly always loves for other reasons than he thinks. A lover is apt to be as full of secrets from himself as is the object of his love from him.

¦-no girl had ever moved me with a story of spiritual suffering and so beautifully her soul showing out radiant as an angel wandering in hell and the hell the selfsame streets I'd roamed in watching, watching for someone just like her and never dreaming the darkness and the mystery and eventuality of our meeting in eternity,

You are done for - a living dead man - not when you stop loving but stop hating. Hatred preserves: in it, in its chemistry, resides the mystery of life.