Nora Roberts Quotes

Most lyric poetry is about love, whether yearned after, fulfilled, or wistfully regretted; what isn't tends to consist of laments and cris du coeur over this, that, and the other.

A boy in love is not mainly a calf but a poet.

Nay," cried Bingley, "this is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things that were said in the morning.

I am the poet of the poor, because I was poor when I loved; since I could not give gifts, I gave words.

Poetry is fired by love.

All in green went my love riding

Cole sat back up, slowly, and I opened my eyes. His expression, as ever, was blank, the face he wore when something mattered. He said, "That's how I would kiss you, if I loved you.

Well, mi amore, this is awesome news! Let's get right on that," said Kami, and began to undo the buttons of her blouse. She looked down at the red buttons slipping out one by one from the black fabric of her shirt. She only had eight buttons, and there went the fourth. Jared sucked breath out of a horrified void and shouted, "stop that!" He angled himself to protect her from the eyes of a crowd that was not there. He hesitated, possibly because now he had a view directly down into shadows and curves.

Somebody's sent a funny little valentine to me. It's a bunch of baby-roses in a vase of filigree, And hovering above them ... is a fairy cupid tangled in a scarf of poetry.

A pretty move, for the love of God.

...in that drunken place you would like to hand your heart to her and say touch it but then give it back.

If Love Were Oil, / I'd Be About a Quart Low.

When confronted with a birthday in a week I will remember that a book can be a really good present, too.

She was nice to him on Valentine's Day. She gave him a heart-shaped rash.

I wished for her,” he says.

Everybody can write poetry, just like everybody knows how to make love.

If thou remeber'st not the slightest folly that ever love did make thee run into, thou hast not lov'd

If you need one more reason, I love you.

"And I love you too." His fingers skate the edge of my jaw, dance briefly over my lips. "You should know that. You have to know that."

I saw a poet chase a butterfly in a meadow. He put his net on a bench where a boy sat reading a book. It's a misfortune that it is usually the other way round.

A poem is the realization of love. . . .

Oh! My beloved! fill the cup, that clears to-day of past regrets and future fears.

And there, in that phrase, the bitterness leaks again out of my pen. What a dull lifeless quality this bitterness is. If I could I would write with love, but if I could write with love I would be another man; I would never have lost love.

... the irony of life is not that you cannot forget but that you can.