LoveLove

 
 Love and a
               Question
               by Robert Frost - 1913

               A STRANGER came to the door at
               eve,
                And he spoke the bridegroom fair.
                He bore a green-white stick in his
               hand,
                And, for all burden, care.
                He asked with the eyes more than the
               lips
                For a shelter for the night,
                And he turned and looked at the road
               afar
                Without a window light.
                The bridegroom came forth into the
               porch
                With, 'Let us look at the sky,
                And question what of the night to be,
                Stranger, you and I.'
                The woodbine leaves littered the
               yard,
                The woodbine berries were blue,
                Autumn, yes, winter was in the wind;
                'Stranger, I wish I knew.'
                Within, the bride in the dusk alone
                Bent over the open fire,
                Her face rose-red with the glowing
               coal
                And the thought of the heart's desire.
                The bridegroom looked at the weary
               road,
                Yet saw but her within,
                And wished her heart in a case of
               gold
                And pinned with a silver pin.
                The bridegroom thought it little to give
                A dole of bread, a purse,
                A heartfelt prayer for the poor of
               God,
                Or for the rich a curse;
                But whether or not a man was asked
                To mar the love of two
                By harboring woe in the bridal house,
                The bridegroom wished he knew.
 

The simple lack of her is more to me than others' presence. Edward Thomas (1878- 1917),
English poet.

To live is like to love-all reason is against it, and all healthy instinct for it. Samuel Butler, Life
and love.

Oh, love is real enough; you will find it someday, but it has one archenemy--and that is life.
Jean Anouilh, Ardele, 1948, (1, translated by Lucienne Hill).

Love is, above all, the gift of oneself. Jean Anouilh, Ardele, 1948, (2, translated by Lucienne
Hill).

To love a thing means wanting it to live. Confucius, Analects, 6th century B.C. (12.10,
translated by Ch'u Chai and Winberg Chai).

Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own. Robert
A. Heinlein, Stranger in a Strange Land, 1961, 34.

As selfishness and complaint pervert and cloud the mind, so love with its joy clears and
sharpens the vision. Helen Keller, My Religion, 1927.