Love melts the rigor which the rocks have bred; a flint will break upon a feather bed.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
Love is something that grows, that comes from nourishment; it builds.
Under that heart of stone beat muscles of pure flint.
Love is the expansion of two natures in such fashion that each include the other, each is enriched by the other.
Love is a springtime plant that perfumes everything with its hope, even the ruins to which it clings.
Love is not the dying moan of a distant violin - it's the triumphant twang of a bedspring.
Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell.
Break a vase, and the love that reassembles the fragments is stronger than that love which took its symmetry for granted when it was whole.
Having blown up my own long-term marriage via an extramarital affair, followed by a traumatic divorce, I tend to think of love as less a gently glowing hearth than a set of flaming train tracks you strap yourself onto.
Love is the flower of life, and blossoms unexpectedly and without law, and must be plucked where it is found, and enjoyed for the brief hour of its duration.
Oh, love will make a dog howl in rhyme.