Taylor Swift Quotes

Love is unpredictable and it’s frustrating and it’s tragic and it’s beautiful.

Well, love is a difficult thing to hold on to. It's a slippery little beast. It will hold you and then it will elude you at any moment.

Love is agony, isn't it? I've been involved with someone for some time now, but it's all so complicated. It's never straightforward is it? You meet someone, you fall in love, it's the most wonderful thing ever but... There's always something that's not quite right about love, isn't there?

There are such wonderful blessings in my life - I have this amazing baby, an amazing family, and I loved X Factor - all these moments of joy, and then these sharp drop-offs. I'd be awake, lying in bed, crying. There's these weird moments of misplaced anger I have.

Love is very beautiful, but very, very sad.

Would love be so different with someone else? Was love even possible with someone else? Love was supposed to be easy, wasn't it? Then why did she feel so tormented?

I'll be honest with you: love is not always what we think it is. It is a roller coaster ride going through this, and it's beautiful at the same time.

Now the same mystery which often veils from our eyes the reason for a catastrophe envelops just as frequently, when love is in question, the suddenness of certain happy solutions, such as had been brought to me by Gilberte's letter. Happy, or at least seemingly happy, for there are few that can really be happy when we are dealing with a sentiment of such a kind that any satisfaction we can give it does no more, as a rule, than dislodge some pain. And yet sometimes a respite is granted us, and we have for a little while the illusion of being healed.

Despair was so familiar to me; it could be banished by the sight of a beautiful mannikin in the window. It could be dispelled by the spectacle of lights surrounding a tower. It could be lifted by the great ghostly shape of St. Patrick's coming into view. And then despair would come again.

If there were reason for these miseries, then into limits could I bind my woes. If the winds rages, doth not the sea wax mad, threat'ning the welkin with its big-swoll'n face? And wilt though have a reason for this coil? I am the sea. Hark how her sighs doth blow. She is the weeping welkin, I the earth.

Anger is nothing more than an outward expression of hurt, fear and frustration

Don't make me sad, don't make me cry. Sometimes love is not enough and the road gets tough, I don't know why.

Such is your cold coquette, who can't say "No," And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow, Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing.

When love brings so much joy, why must it bring so much pain?

I grew up in Louisiana, and I grew up with a dysfunctional family with some very serious abuse from my stepfather, who could be a very beautiful person on one hand and be terrible on the other, so it leaves your soul troubled as a child.

I'm sure I can't relate to what females go through in Hollywood, but I do know what it feels like to eat emotionally. To be sad and make yourself happy with food, and then be almost immediately sad again, and then ashamed. Then, you try to hide those feelings with more food.

Mine (story) ain't the scariest, the clearest, the most painful, or the most beautiful. It just happens to be the one that's got it's fingers around my throat.

Emotions are wild horses.

It's the beautiful moments like this that make up for the ugly love

Love is like the rain. It comes in a drizzle sometimes. Then it starts pouring and if you're not careful it will drown you.

Love is never a fulfillment. Life is never a thing of continuous bliss. There is no paradise. Fight and laugh and feel bitter and feel bliss: and fight again. Fight, fight. That is life.

Women love those best (whether men, women, or children) who give them most pain.

Love . . . is like nature, but in reverse; first it fruits, then it flowers, then it seems to wither, then it goes deep, deep down into its burrow, where no one sees it, where it is lost from sight, and ultimately people die with that secret buried inside their souls.

I remember, in hot floods, the way he slept, still as death, with his face washed flat, stony as a carved tomb and exquisite. His weakness and his ravening bitter needs were terrible, and beautiful, and irresistible as an earthquake. He scalded or smothered anyone he needed, but his needing and the hurt that it caused me were the most life I have ever had. Remember what a poor thing I have always been and forgive me.

Lord, I do fear Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year My soul is all but out of me-let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.