Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.
still loved but deprived of grace
Unrequited love is always a great thing.
I could be with a woman in a bed, for weeks even, and it would seem to me like three seconds. Or 300 years.
Then it is better, sir, to love whom one cannot have?" "Probably better," Lancelot said. "Certainly safer.
Rudy Steiner was scared of the book theif's kiss. He must have longed for it so much. He must have longed for it so much. He must have loved her so incredibly hard. So hard that he would never ask for her lips again, and would go to his grave without them.
No doubt our love was still there, but quite simply it was unusable, heavy to carry, inert inside of us, sterile as crime or condemnation. It was no longer anything except a patience with no future and a stubborn wait.
I do not now begin, - I still adore Her whom I early cherish'd in my breast; Then once again with prudence dispossess'd, And to whose heart I'm driven back once more. The love of Petrarch, that all-glorious love, Was unrequited, and, alas, full sad.
Little Jane's love would have been my best reward, without it, my heart is broken.
You can be lonely when you have a guy living with you.
We found out a long time ago that we weren’t meant to fall in love with each other. But a part of me still fell in hope with him.
And yet, because I love thee, I obtain From that same love this vindicating grace, To live on still in love, and yet in vain
I wondered if he ever thought of me, and hated the pang I felt when I told myself he didn't.
In my younger days I struggled constantly with an overwhelming but pure love affair - my only one, and I would have struggled with it longer had not premature death, bitter but salutary for me, extinguished the cooling flames. I certainly wish I could say that I have always been entirely free from desires of the flesh, but I would be lying if I did.
You see," she concluded miserably, "when I can call like that to him across space--I belong to him. He doesn't love me--he never will--but I belong to him.
It is sad not to love, but it is much sadder not to be able to love.
I still love you. And sometimes, my friend, the love that I have, and can't give to you, crushes the breath from my chest. Sometimes, even now, my heart is drowning in a sorrow that has no stars without you, and no laughter, and no sleep.
She'd loved him as much as he'd let her. More than he'd let her.
When you've never gotten love from someone, you don't know what it might look like if it ever does appear. You look for it in everything: any bright light overhead could be a star.
