Those whose suffering is due to love are, as we say of certain invalids, their own physicians.
Love isn't soft, like the poets say. Love has teeth which bite and the wounds never close.
Love's wounds can be healed only by the one who inflicts them.
For those that were never wounded by love, they will never be able to say: “I lived”. Because they haven’t.
In every heart there is a room, A sanctuary safe and strong, To heal the wounds from lovers past, Until a new one comes along
Time washes clean, love's wounds unseen.
The wounds of love can only be healed by the one who made them.
As many as the shells that are on the shore, so many are the pains of love; the darts that wound are steeped in much poison.
