This assortment of old-fashioned, romantic quotes on the subject of Love were found in Uncle Herbert’s Speaker and Autograph-Album Verses, published in 1887.

Love is a subject to himself alone,
And knows no other empire than his own.
Look how the blue-eyed violets
Glance love to one another!
Their little leaves are whispering
The vows they may not smother.
The birds are pouring passion forth
In every blossoming tree;–
If flowers and birds talk love, lady,
Why not we?
Why should I blush to own I love?
’Tis Love that rules the realms above.
Why should I blush to say to all
That virtue holds my heart in thrall?
Why should I seek the thickest shade,
Lest Love’s dear secret be betrayed?
Why the stern brow deceitful move,
When I am languishing with love?
Is it a weakness thus to dwell
On passion that I dare not tell?
Such weakness I would ever prove.
’Tis painful, but ‘tis sweet to love!
I Hold it true, whate’er befall–
I feel it when I sorrow most–
‘Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all.
Oh, how the passions, insolent and strong,
Bear our weak minds their rapid course along;
Make us the madness of their will obey;
Then die, and leave us to our griefs a prey.
LOVE! What a volume in a word! an ocean in a tear!
A Seventh heaven in a glance! a whirlwind in a sigh!
The lightning in a touch—a millennium in a moment!
What concentrated joy, or woe, in blest or blighted love!
Although my heart, in earlier youth,
Might kindle with more wild desire,
Believe me, it has gained in truth
Much more than it has lost in fire;
The flame now warms my inmost core,
That then but sparkled on thy brow;
And though I seem’d to love thee more,
Yet, oh, I love thee better now.
Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt Truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love!
Oh, how bitter a thing it is to look
Into happiness through another man’s eyes!
LOVE is a pearl of purest hue,
But stormy waves are round it;
And dearly may a woman rue
The hour that first she found it.
Ah me! how deep the poison lies
Which late I drank from ____’s eyes!
It burns, it spreads; each tortured vein
Throbs with the agonizing pain.
I need not say how, one by one,
Love’s flowers have dropp’d from off love’s chain;
Enough to say that they are gone,
And that they cannot bloom again.
Love is, or ought to be, our greatest bliss;
Since every other joy, how dear soever,
Gives way to that, and we leave all for love.

Share this post on:

Explore These Topics: