What's the earth With all its art, verse, music, worth — Compared with love, found, gained, and kept?

Love, hope, fear, faith - these make humanity; These are its sign and note and character

What a name! Was it love or praise? Speech half-asleep or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake.

O lyric love! half angel half bird

God made all the creatures and them our love and out fear, To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here.

Life with all it yields of joy and woe, And hope and fear, Is just our chance o’ the prize of learning love, How love might be, hath been indeed, and is.

For a crowd is not company; and faces are but a gallery of pictures; and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love.

Love, built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.

I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so.

If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.

Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.

Only our love hath no decay; This no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday, Running it never runs from us away, But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.

For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love

Filled with her love, may I be rather grown Mad with much heart, then idiot with none.

All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay...

If that be simply perfectest Which can by no way be expresst But negatives, my love is so. To All, which all love, I say no. Negative Love

Changed loves are but changed sorts of meat, And when he hath the kernel eat, Who doth not fling away the shell?

O! I shall soon despair, when I shall see That Thou lovest mankind well, yet wilt not choose me, And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.

I wonder, by my troth, what thou, and I Did, till we lov'd.

Love is a growing, or full constant light, And his first minute, after noon, is night.

I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost Who died before the god of Love was born.

Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore My love was infinite, if spring makes it more.