Love is a symbol of eternity. It wipes out all sense of time, destroying all memory of a beginning and all fear of an end.
Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.
Will you love me in December as you do in May,
Will you love me in the good old fashioned way?
When my hair has all turned gray,
Will you kiss me then and say,
That you love me in December as you do in May?
True love is like ghosts, which everyone talks about and few have seen
The heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of.
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