Perfect love is rare indeed — for to be a lover will require that you continually have the subtlety of the very wise, the flexibility of the child, the sensitivity of the artist, the understanding of the philosopher, the acceptance of the saint, the tolerance of the scholar and the fortitude of the certain.
– Leo F. Buscaglia, Love (1972)
Till all the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt with the sun;
O I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands of life shall run.
– Robert Burns, “A Red, Red Rose”
And all that memory loves the most
Was once our only hope to be:
And all that hope adored and lost
Hath melted into memory.
– Lord Byron, “they say that Hope is Happiness”
How many times do I love thee, dear?
Tell me how many thoughts there be
In the atmosphere
Of a new fallen year,
Whose white and sable hours appear
The latest flake of Eternity –
So many times do I love thee, dear.
How many time do I love thee, dear?
Tell me how many beads there are
In a silver chain
Of evening rain
Unravelled from the tumbling main,
And threading the eye of a yellowstar
So many times do I love again.
– Thomas Love Peacock, “Song”
Rainbow of Madness 