How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.
There is no more lovely, friendly and charming relationship, communion or company than a good marriage.
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments: love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)
I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken. It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.
Love bears it out even to the edge of doom.
Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.
My true love hath my heart, and I have his
I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,-I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!-and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
Let there be spaces in your togetherness
Love is not breathlessness; It is not excitement; It is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being “in love”, which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.
And if God choose I shall but love thee better after death.
Love itself is what is left over when being "in love" has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.
or simply:
